Cut: The international bestselling serial killer thriller

by Marc Raabe

  While they are cuffing themselves to the steering wheel, Liz kicks the guns under the car and closes the doors. When she presses the button on the key to lock the doors, she almost has to laugh, even though her entire body is trembling. Once again, she feels like she’s in a free fall. It’s like a rush, and the adrenalin and the pain in her stomach make it hard for her to breathe.

  The policeman with the moustache stares angrily through the windscreen. He has just realised that his police car has been turned into a first-class prison cell – any possibility of opening the central locks from inside is destroyed.

  The officers’ faces are lit up once more as the BMW veers off of the kerb and drives down the street. Then it is dark in front of the boutique.

  Liz can barely manage to keep her bare foot still on the accelerator. The pain in her abdomen is now coming at regular intervals. Shit, are these contractions? I’m not even in the fifth month! Tears well up in her eyes. Gabriel shoots into her mind. She’d give anything for him to be here now.

  She instinctively steers the car out of Wassen, back in the direction of Andermatt. There, at least she’ll be expecting the police. And, with a bit of luck and a new outfit, she’ll be able to go to the Andermatt station and get on a Gotthard Railway train unrecognised.

  Just before Andermatt, she takes a narrow forest path that ends at a rocky slope. She parks the car in the darkness between the trees. It doesn’t occur to her to be afraid for even a second. She feels like she’s in a drunken stupor. When she gets out of the BMW, her legs give out. She lies there with one ear on the cool ground, which is covered in moss and grass, and she sucks in the earthy smell, holding her heavy stomach.

  ‘I don’t know if you can hear me,’ she whispers, ‘or how old you are now . . . but please don’t leave me alone!’

  Tears run down her nose to her lips. The salty taste distracts her a bit and she sits up. She slowly peels off the black dress, crawls naked to the car and rummages in the piles of clothes on the back seat. The interior lighting is dreadful and the tears in her eyes make it almost impossible for Liz to see the sizes. When she is finally dressed, she crawls into the driver’s seat, locks the door and puts the electronic seat in a comfortable reclining position.

  Then she turns off the light.

  The darkness is a shock. For a moment, she thinks she’s back in her cell until her eyes adjust and the trees stand out against the night-blue sky. She can tell from the slight movements that there’s a light wind outside and opens the window a crack. The rustling of the trees fulfils her every need. There is a push and pull in her abdomen, as if the child wanted to protest against all of this madness.

  ‘Stay with me,’ she mutters and strokes her stomach. ‘Please.’

  The trees around her are like in the park where Braunsfeld’s villa is located. In her mind, she enters the building again. She never would have thought that it was so lonely here. A lonely castle with lonely furniture and pictures. The only living sound is the scratching of dog paws on the blackish-brown oak floors and the roaring fire in the fireplace.

  The fireplace.

  Her hand freezes in the middle of the gentle stroking motion. Her heart begins to beat wildly. At first she is absolutely sure. Then come the doubts.

  It’s been a while. Maybe you’re wrong . . .

  Chapter 44

  Berlin – 27 September, 5.19 a.m.

  Gabriel stands at the open window, his hands resting on the cool railing and he stares in the still-dark sky over Berlin. The TV tower hovers above everything. He can hear the soft beating of the blades as a helicopter buzzes past him like a hornet on a very direct trajectory.

  He still can’t believe what just happened a few hours ago. His eyes wander into the kitchen, where the green digits above the stove seem to be floating independent of their surroundings. 5.19 a.m.

  Gabriel feels like everything is hanging in a vacuum, the memories are like images on glass shards with so much space between them that more than an entire life can fit inside.

  ‘Have you had any sleep at all?’ David’s voice comes from the hall. He stands in the bedroom door, his face still grey, his blond hair rumpled. There is a thick makeshift bandage wrapped around the flesh wound in his thigh.

  ‘An hour, maybe two,’ Gabriel says. Actually, he hasn’t slept a wink.

  ‘You look like a corpse.

  ‘Spare me your pity.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ David says.

  After Sarkov left the flat, they were both so exhausted that there was nothing left to do but rest.

  ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Gabriel says, irritably.

  David is awkwardly quiet for a moment. ‘Will you look for him?’ he finally asks. ‘I mean Sarkov.’

  ‘Look for him?’ Gabriel snorts. ‘That won’t be enough. Not with Yuri. You can’t find a man who doesn’t want to be found.’

  ‘But you know him, you know what makes him tick and where he could hide, don’t you? How long have you worked for him?’

  ‘Almost twenty years. He got me out of the clinic. And taught me a lot. An unbelievable amount. But, despite all that, I actually know almost nothing about him. He doesn’t let anyone in, not even me. And I think I was closer to him than anyone else.’

  David limps into the living room and plops down on the grey sofa. ‘In any case, the bastard is your only chance.’

  Gabriel nods, deep in thought. ‘Probably, yes.’ His eyes linger on the spot where the bullet went through David’s leg and into the wall.

  ‘What film does Sarkov want from you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gabriel mutters. ‘And I have no idea where that fucking tape is.’

  ‘Yeah, I could’ve guessed. After all, that’s why this lunatic nearly killed me.’

  Gabriel grimaces. ‘The only thing I can remember is that Val also wanted the film – at any price. But I have no idea what’s even on it.’

  David looks at Gabriel for a long time. His green eyes seem ghostly in his pale face.

  Gabriel sees him and smiles slightly. The silent agreement to ignore the dangerous questions between them is a balloon that could burst at any moment.

  ‘So, why does Sarkov think you have the film?’ David asks.

  Gabriel shrugs and rubs his red, sleep-deprived yes. ‘I don’t understand that. It apparently has something to do with that mansion break-in at the house on Kadettenweg. It was on the same night that Liz was kidnapped. That’s when everything started.’

  ‘What mansion?’

  ‘An old timber-framed house in Lichterfelde. It’s been empty for decades, like a fucking ghost house, and suddenly the alarm goes off. Yuri didn’t want me to go there and ordered Cogan, my office mate, to go instead. But he never goes out in the field, and couldn’t really manage it, so I went anyway.’

  ‘Who owns the villa?’

  ‘I think the name was Ashton or something similar. A woman. I just can’t think of her first name.’

  David raises his eyebrows. ‘Hmm, doesn’t mean anything to me.’

  ‘Well, in any case, it looked like someone had broken in. There was a safe mounted into the chimney that was open and empty.’

  ‘And Sarkov thinks that the film was in the safe and that you took it?’

  Gabriel nods, lost in thought. ‘At least that’s what he thought until last night.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When I mentioned Val and that Liz had been kidnapped, the film suddenly didn’t matter at all. Did you see his face?’

  ‘He was properly shocked. It’s just a question of why.’

  Gabriel nods. The throbbing in his head feels like there is a crack in his skull. ‘Yeah. What got him so spooked?’

  ‘The kidnapping? Or that Val had threatened to kill Liz?’

  ‘Hardly,’ he says hoarsely. ‘Yuri’s sense of compassion has its limits, especially when it comes to women. It has something to do with that name. Val is apparently his re
al name or some sort of nickname. And Yuri doesn’t want me to know who’s behind it. He would rather bite off his own tongue than tell me who Val is.’

  ‘So, we have to find Sarkov and convince him to tell us the real name,’ David asserts.

  ‘Convincing him won’t be enough,’ Gabriel says. Despite the pain and exhaustion, he manages a crooked smile.

  ‘Why are you grinning like that?’

  ‘You said we,’ Gabriel answers.

  ‘Did I?’

  Gabriel nods silently.

  ‘But I don’t know if I meant it. I don’t actually want to go looking for anyone who walks around with a gun in his coat pocket.’

  Gabriel smiles weakly. Suddenly, the world is spinning around him. Just a short rest, he thinks. Exhausted, he sinks to the floor and leans against the wall near Sarkov’s bullet hole.

  Then he vomits.

  Chapter 45

  Berlin – 27 September, 6.21 p.m.

  Liz curses and hangs up the payphone. The street lamps switch on, as the daylight is long past. Rain whips at her legs from the side under the half-open plastic shelter of the call box. Her trousers feel heavy and wet.

  She stares at the scratched Plexiglas on the vast facade of Berlin Hauptbahnhof, which is lit up in a toxic yellow, where she just arrived by train fifteen minutes ago.

  Gabriel, where are you?

  She dials his mobile again for the third time in a row.

  Again, voicemail.

  That’s impossible.

  Eventually, she dials the landline at her own flat. ‘Liz Anders,’ she hears her own voice in the earpiece followed by the familiar beep.

  ‘Hey, Gabriel. Are you there? It’s me. Please pick up if you can hear me . . . Gabriel?’

  Nothing.

  She is still not even sure that the answering machine isn’t set to silent.

  Hang up again. Curse again.

  Then she suddenly remembers Python Security, the firm where Gabriel works.

  She calls information and is connected to Python.

  ‘Python Security, this is Cogan,’ a male voice says. Cogan. The name sounds familiar. Gabriel has mentioned him before. ‘Good evening, this is Liz Anders, I’m looking for Gabriel Naumann, is he there?’

  ‘Uh, good evening. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Anders. Liz Anders.’

  ‘Uh, just a minute please.’

  Liz hears a loud rustling. It sounds like the man is holding his hand over the phone. Her heart beats faster. Maybe Gabriel is nearby.

  ‘Ms Anders? Excuse me. Mr Naumann is indeed here, but he can’t come to the phone at the moment. Could you maybe come by the office?’

  He’s there. Sudden joy flows through her body. ‘Please get him on the phone. I need to speak with him urgently. It’s an emergency.’

  The voice hesitates a moment. ‘Well, I . . . I’m sorry, but that just isn’t possible. Maybe you could tell me where you are and then he can come right to you.’

  ‘That’s fine, but please, I need to speak with him right now anyway.’

  ‘He’ll come to you,’ the man says. ‘Just tell me where to find you and we’ll come to you.’

  Liz pauses. We? Why we? ‘Listen, Mr Cogan – or whatever your name is – why can’t he tell me that himself? Or do you live in the Dark Ages and have no mobiles?’

  Silence.

  Then: ‘Mr Naumann has an appointment and I am not to disturb him.’

  ‘An appointment?’ Liz asks. Suddenly, all of the alarm bells go off. ‘With a customer?’

  ‘Uh, yes. With an important customer, you know, a lot depends on this meeting. I am not to disturb him. Just tell me where you are.’

  The phone in Liz’s hand begins to tremble. Gabriel hadn’t told her much about his work, but she knew one thing for sure: Gabriel never had appointments with Python clients. He drove out to the clients – for example, when there was trouble or an alarm – but he never had meetings with them. Talking to important clients was always a matter for his boss.

  ‘Hello? Ms Anders, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll come and get you, if you’d like.’

  Liz closes her eyes for a moment and then says: ‘You have no idea where he is, do you?’

  Silence.

  Her heart is pounding as she hangs up the phone. Her knuckles have turned white from gripping her fingers so tightly around the black plastic. Her mind races. He’s in trouble, she thinks, stunned. But why? And why does this Cogan guy want her to come to Python so badly? What is going on here?

  She lets go of the phone and tries to breathe.

  Focus. Stay calm. Who else can you call?

  Gabriel had no one he could call in an emergency, no friends, just a few colleagues. Colleagues with whom he now clearly had problems.

  Suddenly, she thinks of Gabriel’s brother, David Naumann. Even if Gabriel had never tried contacting him before, maybe the situation had changed since she disappeared.

  There’s just the tiniest of chances, but still, there’s a chance. Only, she doesn’t have David Naumann’s telephone number.

  She quickly dials one of the few numbers that she has memorised.

  ‘Pierra Jacobi, Jetset Editorial.’

  Finally, a familiar voice. ‘Pierra, it’s me, Liz!’

  ‘Liz! My god, where have you been? I haven’t heard from you in weeks. Why haven’t you called?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been . . . out and about. Pierra, can you please do me a favour?’

  ‘Anything, dear.’

  ‘I need a phone number for David Naumann.’

  ‘Um, does he even matter any more? I thought he was on his way out.’

  ‘Petra, please!’

  ‘All right. Which do you need? Mobile, office?’

  ‘Definitely his mobile, but just give me everything you have in your special file.’

  Pierra Jacobi rattles off two numbers and Liz writes them down in one of the damp phone books in front of her.

  ‘Was that all?’

  ‘No, wait. I need one more – for Victor von Braunsfeld.’

  Pierra whistles through her teeth. ‘Sweetie, what is going on there? Have you stumbled onto something that I don’t know about?’

  Liz rolls her eyes. The train station looks wavy behind the rivulets of rain.

  ‘Pierra! Please just give me the number.’

  ‘Am I the directory?’ In the background, Liz can hear Pierra typing something at her computer. ‘OK, I have the number for his office . . .’

  ‘You don’t have anything else?’

  ‘That urgent?’

  ‘Really,’ Liz mutters. ‘I just have to see him and I’m sure I won’t reach anyone at the office. Are you sure that you don’t have any other number?’

  ‘Ha, you’re funny . . . you know, the man’s not some pizza delivery guy. Do you want that number or not?’

  ‘OK,’ Liz sighs and quickly notes down the series of digits beside the two numbers for David Naumann. ‘You’re the best. Cheers.’

  ‘Liz?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Listen, if some story comes out of this, promise me that you’ll think of me and my little magazine?’

  Liz smiles, despite her situation. ‘Promise.’

  She hangs up and closes her eyes for a moment. It feels good to be in Berlin. It is almost as if the cellar in Switzerland were another world entirely, another universe in some faraway dream, and now she is back in her old life where she is a hard-hitting journalist with everything under control.

  She knows that she can’t go to the police, at least not yet anyway. First she needs evidence for her theory and she wants to find it before Val gets wind of what she’s up to. Before he realises that she might know who he really is.

  She rests her writing hand on the phone book. She throws a few coins into the phone and dials David’s office. After the first ring, it crackles softly and the call is forwarded. Three more rings and
she gets his voicemail.

  Crap.

  Liz slams the receiver down and decides to try again later. A gust of wind tugs on the side of the phone book and makes the scribbled digits of the third telephone number flutter as raindrops sprinkle on the top page.

  It would be idiotic to call Braunsfeld’s office. Her only chance of seeing the old man would be to surprise him at home when the last of his staff had left the villa and, if she remembers correctly, that happens around 11 p.m. Victor had always insisted upon having the villa to himself at night and since he, like many old people, sleeps very little, she has a real chance of getting him between 12 and 1 a.m. The only catch is that von Braunsfeld turns off his doorbell at ten o’clock.

  With a swift motion, Liz tears the page with the numbers out of the phone book and puts it in her trouser pocket. Her sore leg muscles are killing her as she tries to hurry through the rain to the taxi stand.

  Almost as soon as she sits in the taxi, it stops raining. The drive through the centre of Berlin is short and, although she’s already slept on the train ride from Andermatt to Berlin, she nods off again now.

  In her dream, she is racing down a steep, snow-covered mountainside, but she never sees her destination – she’s just following Gabriel while Val follows close behind her. His skis make a crunching sound as they plough through the harsh snow.

  ‘So, KaDeWe, we’re here.’ the driver says loudly.

  Liz jerks awake. The illuminated facade of the Kaufhaus des Westens, the biggest department store in Berlin, beams at Liz through the side window like an old acquaintance. Liz pays the driver and opens the taxi door. The gutter is brimming with dirt and water, and shines in the lights of Tauentzienstrasse.

  As she enters the store, she suddenly feels compelled to look around. Her heart rate accelerates at the thought of Val. Her eyes scan the cameras just below the ceiling as if he can see her through them, see all the way into the back of her brain. She secretly wishes it were dark. Pitch black. But the department store lighting is bright and merciless.

  About forty-five minutes later, Liz leaves KaDeWe again, dressed in dry black jeans, lace-up boots with rubber soles, a polo-neck jumper and the dark jacket from the boutique in Wassen. In her right hand, she has a sports bag with all of her old clothing, in the left, a sturdy leather holdall full of dog bones and a pair of rubberised gloves. After that, she goes to a small hardware shop and gets six screw clamps. The wad of cash in her pocket has become noticeably thinner.