His father had made the right choice. He had made an irreversible decision: to save his wife and son.
His father had not joined up in order to be a hero, or for ideological reasons, or because he was stupid, as Kobold had told himself so many times that he had ended up believing it.
His father was a peasant, the son of peasants. A man who, every time he shot a deer or a pheasant, would whisper a prayer, asking forgiveness of the spirit of the creature whose life he had taken to satisfy their hunger.
His father was a good man.
Kobold had mangled the surname of this son of peasants, just so that he could forget him. He would sooner have had the Standartenführer’s name. At present, Wegener wondered which of them had been the true hero: the S.S. colonel or the peasant with the wistful smile. Siegfried, who had taught the barefoot child to hate, or the peasant who had gone to his death in order to make the right choice?
Wegener took off his shoes, one after the other, then his socks. Barefoot, he stood up and walked to the window. The crisp air made him shiver. He took a handful of snow from the windowsill, went back to the bed and sat down again. He dropped the snow on the floor and trod on it.
“Teach me, Papa,” he murmured. “Teach me to be brave.”
To make the right choice.
He picked up the automatic. The gun was loaded and the safety catch was off. If he put it to his temple, it would all be over. He had heard that a bullet in the brain was not painful. It was like blowing a lightbulb. Game over.
The Consortium would have proof of his cowardice, but the sapphires would fall in value and the wrong would be righted. Maybe the Trusted Man would be called back and the order to kill Marlene (and Klaus) revoked. Then they would take everything.
The empire would be plundered.
The empire?
Wegener could see it clearly now, this empire of his. Illegal gambling dens, third-rate hotels for clandestine trysts, a handful of prostitutes to exploit, then throw away, smugglers with no future, drunks who acted tough. His empire, Wegener thought, was worth less than the snow now melting at his feet. It had never been anything but a dream, the illusion of a hungry child wandering through the woods.
Nine times out of ten . . .
“What is the right choice, Papa?” he asked the silent villa.
The villa did not answer. His father did not answer.
Nor did the man at the door.
Wegener saw first the shadow, then the man.
He thought: the Standartenführer was wrong. The Bogeyman does exist. He was not a soldier, the wretched son of a wretch, like his father. The man at the door was tall, with blue eyes, and was staring at him. He was holding a knife, and his hands were dripping with blood.
He was certainly not here to bring him chocolate.
All the same, Wegener smiled.
58
Lorenz Gasser.
It was three in the morning. Lying on his bed in a cheap hotel, the Trusted Man rubbed his chin with satisfaction. It was all in a black-and-white photograph. A newspaper cutting.
For the Trusted Man, research was part of the process. Whenever he drew up a contract with an important person (and he had dealt with more influential people than Herr Wegener), the first thing he did was look for information about him, more than about the target. Getting to know the predator was more useful than going straight for the prey. Why do some men prefer hunting deer to fly fishing? Find out and you’ll know where to find the deer as well as the trout.
A man was all he wanted. The rest was just flesh and illusion.
And here he was.
Lorenz Gasser. The Vixen’s accomplice.
The piece of paper the Trusted Man was triumphantly holding was part of one of the files he kept in his doctor’s bag. A newspaper cutting stolen from a library archive. Newspapers were an excellent source of information, especially about men with heavy burdens on their conscience.
Sometimes they did not even know they had a conscience. They slept like children, these men. And yet something inside them drove them to seek atonement.
There was vanity in atonement, because powerful men liked to see themselves reflected in other people’s eyes. There was no difference between contrition and wallowing in one’s own sins. Rich men like Wegener called this vanity “charity.” And that was precisely the subject of the article in the newspaper. A charity ball.
Christmas 1972. Illustrious guests. Wreaths. An over-decorated tree. Gifts for the underprivileged. In the photograph were Marlene and Herr Wegener. He was in a dinner suit. She looked stunning, hair gathered in a perfect chignon, her daring neckline brazenly displaying the flower of her youth. Was it surprising that all eyes were on the couple?
They were the embodiment of everyone’s dreams: rich, attractive, happy. But the slender little man, only half of him in frame, wasn’t staring at Marlene with admiration or even desire, but with yearning.
The slender little man had a name. It was there under the picture. The list of guests in the article was a long one. In fact, the piece was mostly made up of names, almost as if the reporter were afraid of leaving someone out. The slender little man was a big cheese in import–export. His name was the same as the one Dr. Zimmerman had written on that sheet of letter-headed paper.
Lorenz Gasser.
It was just a matter of finding him. That would not be difficult.
It was against the rules, but the Trusted Man was only too happy with this discovery. Besides, he was tired, and it was cold outside. He did not feel like getting up, getting dressed and going out just for a telephone call. He picked up the receiver and dialled the number.
A woman answered.
“Isabella, sorry to bother you. May I speak to your husband?”
59
A car hooted its horn, and Keller woke with a start. He had spent the night in the entrance hall of an apartment building, wrapped in his greatcoat, his holdall under his arm.
It was not yet daylight, and his knee was throbbing. Pain radiated down to his ankle and up to his groin. He tried to shake off the chill of a night spent without shelter. His back was so stiff, it took him a while to get back on his feet.
It had stopped snowing, and the temperature was some way below zero.
He felt his knee. It was swollen again. A knee like this, he thought, will never heal.
A handful of poppy seeds.
No, two would be better.
He filled his meerschaum pipe and leaned back against the wall, watching the few cars in the street and waiting for the poppy to take effect.
As he smoked, he smiled.
He had not felt this well for decades. For the first time since hearing the Voice, Keller dared to think about redemption. Killing Herr Wegener had been like making up for a mistake he had made many years earlier.
Not saving little Elisabeth.
It was as if he had somehow gone back in time and the paths of the present and the past had crossed, allowing him to protect, if not Lissy, then at least Marlene and the life she carried in her womb, by killing the man who was threatening her.
Miracle and mystery.
Maybe that was how it had been. Or maybe not.
Maybe it was the opium that made him think so. Or maybe not.
Keller heaved the holdall onto his shoulder and set off, limping, towards the bus station.
60
Funny how his calling Carbone’s wife by her first name had made the captain act so quickly and efficiently. Less than half an hour later, he called back with the details of Lorenz Gasser, the slim little man in the newspaper cutting. He was slightly breathless. The Trusted Man thanked him kindly and asked him to convey his regards and apologies to Isabella. This scared Carbone even more.
The Trusted Man wiped the receiver, made his bed and paid the bill, leaving a tip that was neither too small nor too showy. He treated himself to a coffee at a service station and drove for the rest of the night. No Reschen Pass this time. He was heading east.
> He crossed the Swiss–Austrian border and drove down to Brenner from there, stopped to stretch his legs and empty his bladder, had another coffee and a stale croissant while a drunk lorry driver rattled on about the end of the world and nuclear apocalypse to a sleepy barman and reached Brixen at around eight in the morning.
Finding the slim little man’s house was child’s play. It was a villa surrounded by a garden on the northern outskirts of the town. The Trusted Man forced the outside gate open and rang the doorbell. The door was opened by a sleepy man. Skinny, with just a few hairs on his head and protruding front teeth. The kind of man who thinks he is cleverer than anybody else. A ferret. So this was the Vixen’s accomplice.
Lorenz Gasser.
“May I come in?”
The ferret did not object, merely glancing absently at the gun the Trusted Man was pointing at him, as if being threatened with death were a habitual occurrence.
He invited him to sit down.
The Trusted Man indicated a door through which the pounding of a shower could be heard. “Who’s there?”
“A friend.”
“Might this friend be a problem?”
“She’s a whore. High class. Costs me a hundred and fifty thousand lire a night. I know her. She’ll be in there for ages.”
The Trusted Man crossed his legs. “Marlene Taufer.”
Gasser rubbed his hands together. “I figured as much. Did Wegener send you?”
“One could say that.”
“Or one could say the Consortium sent you.”
“One could.”
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“You don’t look scared.”
“Why should I be? It’s business. You want information, and I’m willing to give it to you. Free of charge. It’s your lucky day.”
“Let’s hope it’s your lucky day, too.”
Gasser winced at this remark. “Marlene called me a couple of weeks ago. I can check my diary, if you like. I write everything down. I’m meticulous. She needed a favour. A favour Wegener knew nothing about.”
“How did you meet her?”
“She’s Wegener’s wife, isn’t she?” Gasser said, almost annoyed by the unnecessary question. “That son of a bitch drags her around with him like a trophy. ‘Let me introduce you to my lovely wife . . .’ At least I have the decency to keep whores in their place.”
“Is Marlene a whore?”
Gasser displayed his nicotine-stained teeth. “By the way, you haven’t told me your name.”
“I’m the only entry missing from your diary, Herr Gasser.”
“Are you asking me if I screwed that airhead Marlene?”
“I’m wondering what the nature of the exchange was.”
A clucking laugh. “As a matter of fact, I did hope I might at first. Screw her every which way, if you know what I mean. And fuck that bastard. Just for the sake of . . . You must be wondering why I hate him so much.”
“Envy. Pride. Frustrated ambition. Does it really matter? Time’s flying, and by the time that shower’s over you’ll have a bullet in your head. Make it brief and no one will get hurt. Maybe.”
The ferret licked his lips. “Marlene asks me a favour. She knows my professional field: insurance, banking. Insurance for private clinics. Merchant banks. I’m her man. I suppose she must have found my number in Wegener’s notebook. We meet. I’m hoping for a good fuck, but what little Marlene offers me is even better, trust me.”
“Sapphires,” the Trusted Man said.
“Take a look around, my new friend with no name. Do you think I need money?”
“A hundred and fifty thousand a night is a substantial sum.”
Gasser looked at him. “We both know what those sapphires represent.”
“You tell me.”
“The Consortium. Wegener wants to be a part of it.”
“And so you agree because you know that this way Marlene will sabotage her husband’s plans.”
Gasser applauded.
“Give me the details.”
“Could you put that away?”
The Trusted Man indulged him. The gun disappeared into the holster under his jacket.
“Marlene was supposed to get to the Reschen Pass between three and nine in the morning. During that time, she would meet a border guard who owes me a couple of favours and who would let her through with no fuss. Then she would go to the clinic. You know about the clinic?”
“Zimmerman.”
“Terrible character, but efficient. I hope you didn’t kill him.”
“No.”
“I paid in advance, out of my own pocket, to make sure the operation went according to plan. I was supposed to go there to pay my respects and conclude the exchange. I would convert Wegener’s sapphires into dollars and new identity documents. Taking a reasonable commission. Fifteen per cent, if you want to know. Plus one sapphire. As a keepsake, let’s say.”
“Marlene trusted you.”
Gasser grimaced. “You forget what a crook Wegener is. Marlene didn’t come to me because of my pretty face, but because she was aware of the friction between me and her husband.”
“Something went wrong.”
The ferret absent-mindedly scratched a shin protruding from his pyjamas. “Marlene disappeared.”
“Before the border.”
“My man didn’t see her. Not that day, not the following days.”
The Trusted Man allowed himself a moment’s reflection. Marlene had disappeared somewhere between Merano and the Reschen Pass. That narrowed the hunting ground. Vinschgau. The Passeier Valley. The Ulten Valley. And all the surrounding valleys. Not exactly a tiny area, but not the Wild West either.
He stood up.
“Are you leaving?”
Funny how such a shrewd operator had not picked up on such an important detail, the Trusted Man thought as he shook the ferret’s hand. In sabotaging Wegener, Lorenz Gasser had hindered the Consortium’s plans.
The Trusted Man was shaking hands with a dead man.
61
He had reached his destination.
The bus swerved just before completing its journey, and Keller, who had stood up early to get to the folding doors, had to hold on tight to stop himself from falling. Pain shot up from his knee, making him clench his teeth. The driver looked at him in the rear-view mirror, as if daring him to complain about his driving. Keller got off.
There were a few people at the stop. Some meeting passengers, others saying goodbye.
Keller breathed in the ice-cold air and sat down on the church steps. He chewed on what was left of the hard bread prepared by Marlene and emptied the tin flask.
The bread tasted like the best thing he had ever eaten. Even so, the night he had spent in the open had left its mark. His knee demanded respite. He doubled the dose of poppy seeds.
He could not get the tune heard in the café in Merano out of his head. He hummed it until he felt the seeds flow through his veins in a warm wave. He stood up and took a few tentative steps towards the mountains. As he reached the square, halfway between the general store and a couple of houses, his knee gave out without warning and he collapsed to the ground.
A little boy popped his head around a door, stuck a finger in his mouth and closed the door immediately.
Keller ran his gloved hand over his face and cursed himself. With some difficulty, he got back on his feet.
The little boy came out, wearing a scarf, heavy boots and an open padded jacket. He said nothing, just stared at him.
“You should zip that jacket up. You’ll catch cold.”
The little boy ran away.
Once out of the village, Keller put on the snowshoes, took a little more poppy and set off.
62
He put in the telephone tokens.
There was a message. No begging this time, no lamentations or threats. It wasn’t Herr Wegener’s voice the Trusted Man found on his voicemail. It was Carbone asking him to call the villa. He sounded breathless.
Five rings. A stranger picked up.
“Could you put me through to Captain Carbone, please?”
“Who’s speaking?”
“Right away.”
“I must have your name.”
“Carbone, please.”
Something about his tone persuaded the man at the other end to obey.
There was some bustling, then the captain’s voice. He sounded hesitant. “Is that you?”
“When?”
“They found him half an hour ago. I thought it best to call you.”
The Trusted Man glanced at his watch. It was just before four. He calculated the time it would take him to get there. “Don’t touch anything.”
He hung up, walked back to his car and headed for Merano. It was dusk, and he turned on the headlights.
It was only after several kilometres that he realised he had not wiped the telephone receiver. The realisation filled him with sadness.
63
Dusk at the maso.
Marlene had spent the night, the previous day and the night after Keller’s departure in such a heightened state of anxiety that she had eaten practically nothing. She had slept fitfully, curled up by the window, waiting. She had fed the pigs (though Lissy had not come out) and done a lot of thinking.
About Klaus, whom she could feel throbbing inside her so strongly.
About what she would tell him of the mystery of his birth, the theft and her escape in the night.
Above all, about what to tell him of the man in dark clothes who, the moment he came in through the front door of the maso, his face drained of colour, took his holdall off his shoulder and, with a smile, put a crumpled package down on the table in the Stube.
“It’s for the two of you.”
A slice of Sachertorte, a bit squashed but still in one piece. Marlene’s eyes filled with tears.
“It’s good,” Keller said, sitting down on the bench. “A bit too sweet, though.”
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