Or the funeral of some other baby?
All hope was gone. There was no way out. Anything he did would endanger Simon. Anything he failed to do would end his own life.
Another fifteen metres.
He realized how unlikely it was that Engler would leave anyone alive after engineering his execution. As soon as he had a bullet in the head, the inspector would shoot the avenger and Simon. He would then take a minute to arrange the bodies before giving his men the signal to close in. Stern could visualize his official report:
Child-trafficker (Robert Stern) attempted to hand over boy
(Simon Sachs) to paedophile (?).
An exchange of shots ensued, in the course of which
all three persons sustained fatal injuries.
The concealed witness (Inspector Martin Engler) was unable
to prevent this development without endangering his own life.
Another ten metres.
Who knows, though? Stern experienced an irrational flicker of hope. Simon is anaesthetized, so he isn’t a potentially dangerous witness. The more dead bodies, the greater the risk. Would Engler kill more people than absolutely necessary? Would he let Simon live after all?
The man’s shadowy figure was becoming more distinct. Stern’s vague feeling that their paths had crossed before intensified.
‘Are the goods healthy?’
He gave a start and almost stopped short. Although Engler had told him of this ‘password’ in advance, it felt as if his executioner had asked whether he had anything to say before he was dispatched.
Seven metres.
Stern came to a halt. As instructed, he slowly squatted down and deposited the basket on the muddy surface of the car park as carefully as possible. Next, he was to straighten up and make a V-sign with his left hand.
‘That’ll clinch the deal,’ Engler had said.
And turn me into a target, thought Stern. He remained bending over the doll for a second longer than necessary.
That second made all the difference. Perhaps because the glare of the headlights was refracted differently from that angle, or perhaps because of his proximity and the light of the rising sun. To Stern, it didn’t matter why he suddenly recognized the man whose tousled, thinning hair was fluttering in the wind, even though he had seen him only once before in his life.
He pulled himself together and rose slowly to his feet.
What do I do now?
The sweat was collecting beneath his scratchy woollen mask.
How do I give him a sign without arousing Engler’s suspicions?
He raised his arm, which suddenly seemed to dangle from his shoulder like an uncontrollable lead weight.
There must be some way. You must be able to do something.
He longed to tear off the mask and the duct tape, but that would sentence Simon to death.
The other man’s arm was already halfway to waist height. Stern sensed rather than saw him take something from his pocket. An automatic? A revolver? No matter. Another two seconds and you’re history. He gagged, feeling certain, although he couldn’t see the avenger’s hands, that a gun was aimed at his head.
A guttural sound, so soft that he alone could hear it, issued from his parched throat. That finally dissolved his mental block.
Of course. That’s it.
It was idiotic, banal and probably doomed to fail, but at least he wouldn’t meet his end in a state of total inactivity.
Click.
Only seven metres away, the man he recognized had cocked a revolver. Despite this, Stern raised his arm, shut his eyes and started to hum. Six notes only, the simplest melodic sequence he knew but the only one fraught with special meaning.
Money, money, money …
He hoped that the elderly Abba fan would recognize it. Prayed that this hint would belie the V-sign he was making with his left hand – prayed that it would be enough to give pause to the man whose wheelchair he had blundered into when visiting the hospital two days ago.
Money, money, money …
He hummed the phrase again, then screwed up his eyes in expectation of a lethal explosion inside his skull.
Two seconds later, when nothing had happened, he blinked convulsively. His hopes revived a little, his heart beat faster. Jubilant at the possibility that his sign had been interpreted correctly, he opened his eyes. At that precise moment the first shot rang out.
13
Engler, who had circled round behind the other two, saw Stern topple over backwards. He leaped at the gunman even before the lawyer’s head hit the ground. The force of the impact dislodged two of the old man’s vertebrae and fractured a rib. The inspector kicked his moaning victim’s gun out of his hand. Then he turned him over on his back and sat on him, pinning his arms to his sides, before holding an automatic to the man’s head.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he shouted.
The beam of the torch attached to the barrel of Engler’s handgun lit up a wrinkled face he’d never seen before in his life.
‘Losensky,’ gasped the man. ‘My name is Frederik Losensky.’
He spat some blood into the inspector’s face. Engler wiped his cheek on his sleeve and forced Losensky’s jaws apart. He was about to insert the muzzle of his automatic in the man’s mouth when he paused.
‘Who are you with? Who are you working for?’
‘Him.’
‘Him who? Who’s your boss?’
‘The same as yours. Almighty God.’
‘I don’t believe this!’ Engler jabbed his gun into the underside of Losensky’s lower jaw. ‘Don’t tell me we’ve been fucked around for years by a retired religious maniac.’
His laugh developed into a bronchitic cough.
‘OK, I’ve got some good news for you,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Your boss has just invited you to an important meeting, and I’m to send you on your way. He’s in a bit of a hurry, so—’
‘Drop your gun!’
Engler raised his eyebrows and turned to look. A figure had just emerged from behind a clump of fir trees.
‘Welcome to the party,’ he said with a laugh when he recognized Carina. ‘Better late than never.’
She took a couple of steps towards him but remained at a safe distance.
‘Drop your gun and get off him.’
‘Or else what?’
Engler had to shout to make himself heard in spite of their proximity. The wind was blowing even harder now.
‘I’ll shoot you.’
‘With that thing in your hand?’
‘Yes.’
He laughed. ‘Is that the pea-shooter from the bumbag you were wearing yesterday?’
‘So what?’
‘Do me a favour and pull the trigger.’
‘What do you mean?’
Carina, who had been holding the gun in one hand, clasped the butt with the other hand as well. She might almost have been praying.
‘Only asking,’ called the inspector. The old man beneath him was breathing heavily. ‘You don’t have to aim it at me. Just fire in the air.’
‘Why?’
Carina’s arms had started to tremble as if the gun in her hands were growing heavier by the second.
‘Because you’ll find the fucking thing isn’t loaded. You really think I’d give it back without emptying the magazine first?’
‘What makes you think I didn’t fill it again?’
‘The look on your face, Fräulein Freitag.’
Engler removed his automatic from Losensky’s lower jaw and levelled it at Carina’s chest. ‘Bye-bye,’ he said.
There was a click as Carina squeezed the trigger. Click, click. The fourth futile click was drowned by Engler’s chesty laughter.
‘Too bad.’
He aimed the laser pointer straight at Carina’s forehead. His finger tightened on the trigger.
When the shot rang out like a whiplash over the Wannsee, the gale seemed to hold its breath for one brief moment. Then, with a renewed roar, it swallowed u
p the lethal sound.
The Beginning
It is no more remarkable to be born once than twice.
Voltaire
This is attested by the accounts of people who have undergone a near-death experience.
Nearly all of them sensed that their soul detached itself from their body before they were resuscitated.
What is more, some even say they knew, while dying, what new body their soul would migrate to.
Carina Freitag
1
The voices were overlaid by a metallic hiss that made them sound as if they were coming from audio headphones with the volume turned up too high. The more the vehicle lurched around, the louder and more distinct they became. They eventually tugged so hard at Simon’s consciousness that he couldn’t remain asleep any longer and opened his eyes for the duration of one overexposed snapshot. It was just long enough to reveal that two men were sitting beside him in the back of an ambulance.
‘Cryptomnesia?’ said a hoarse voice. He recognized it at once.
Borchert!
‘Yes,’ replied Professor Müller. ‘Reincarnation is a thoroughly controversial field of research, of course, but cryptomnesia is currently regarded as the most plausible approach to explaining suprasensual rebirth experiences in a logical and scientific manner.’
Simon wanted to sit up. He was thirsty and his left knee was itching beneath the thin pyjama trousers. Usually being alone when he woke, he needed a little time to himself – to clear his head, as Carina put it. Whenever she said that he was reminded of those ‘snowballs’. Glass globes you shook and then watched the polystyrene flakes drifting slowly down. He sometimes thought his head must look exactly like that when he woke up. For the first few minutes of the day he liked to wait until the pictures and voices in his head drifted back to where they belonged. That was why he decided to pretend to be asleep for a bit longer while he sorted out his thoughts and listened to the two men’s low voices.
‘Do I need a university degree to follow this?’ Borchert was asking.
‘Not at all. It’s really quite simple. Until recently scientists assumed that the human brain possessed a built-in filter. It’s capable of processing innumerable items of information simultaneously, but not all of them are important. At the moment, for instance, your main concern is to listen to me, follow what I’m saying and, at the same time, prevent yourself from slipping off your seat when the ambulance goes round a corner. But it’s totally unimportant to you what examiner’s number is stamped on this medicine chest or whether I’m wearing lace-up shoes.’
‘They’re slip-ons.’
‘Quite so. Your eye has been registering that all the time, but the filter in your brain sifted it out until I drew your attention to it. A good thing, too. Think what it would be like if you counted every leaf on every tree when you walked through a forest. If we were talking together in a café, you’d be unable to fade out the conversations going on at neighbouring tables.’
‘I’d probably wet myself.’
‘You may laugh, but you’re right. Without a filter your brain would be so busy processing an unimaginably vast influx of information, you’d probably be incapable of the simplest bodily functions.’
‘But you just said this filter theory is old hat.’
Simon felt an invisible force propelling him forwards, which meant that he was lying with his head pointing the way they were going and the ambulance had just pulled up.
‘Not exactly,’ said Müller, ‘but there’s a new and very plausible theory based on research into savantism.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Autism is the term you’re probably more familiar with.’
‘Rain Man?’
‘Yes, for example. Let me think of the best way of explaining it to a layman.’
Although his eyes were shut, Simon could clearly visualize the medical director thinking hard, the corners of his mouth turned down. It was all Simon could do not to grin.
‘All right, forget about the filter and think of a valve instead.’
‘OK.’
‘Thanks to the brain’s almost limitless ability to store data, there is much evidence to suggest that our first step is to store everything it registers, but only on a subconscious level, and that a biochemical valve prevents our long-term memory from becoming overloaded by releasing only the data we really need.’
‘So everything is filed away in a filing cabinet, but we have a tough job opening the drawers?’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘But what’s all this got to do with Simon’s reincarnation?’
‘That’s quite simple. Ever fallen asleep in front of the television?’
‘All the time. I was watching some boring documentary on burning witches the other night. That did it.’
‘Good. You stored all the information but the valve has prevented you from actively remembering it. However, a specially trained therapist could stimulate your subconscious under hypnosis.’
‘And open the drawer.’
‘Precisely.’
Simon heard a click followed by a faint, irregular scratching sound not far from his right ear. He guessed that the medical director was giving Borchert a graphic illustration of what he meant by drawing a diagram with his ballpoint.
‘In the case of most regressions in which the patient is put into a trance or hypnotized, that’s exactly what happens. People believe their spirit is roaming around in a previous existence. In reality, they’re only recalling something they quite unwittingly stored in one of their brain’s deepest levels of consciousness. If you underwent a regression of that kind, Herr Borchert, it’s possible you would remember that television documentary on the Middle Ages and believe you were a witch being burned at the stake. You would even be able to quote authentic dates and places because you’d been told them by the programme’s presenter.’
‘But I didn’t see any pictures.’
‘Yes, you saw pictures in your own imagination, which are often more vivid than actual impressions. You probably know that from reading books.’
‘Hm, sure, from way back. And that’s called crypto-whatsit?’
Simon sensed that the ambulance was steadily putting on speed. It reminded him of the way Carina had driven to the ruined industrial estate where he’d met his lawyer for the first time.
Robert and Carina. Where are they?
‘Cryptomnesia. That’s the technical term for representing knowledge you’ve subconsciously absorbed from other people as your own. Are you still with me?’
‘Just about. But Simon didn’t fall asleep in front of the television, did he?’
Simon was tempted to blink. He screwed up his eyes. The harder the pressure on his eyeballs, the clearer the picture he’d just been dreaming of.
The door with the number on it. Number 17.
‘No, not that,’ Müller replied, ‘but something similar. I think you’re aware that we discontinued his radiotherapy a month or so ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because of the side effects. He was placed in intensive care with a temperature of forty-one, suffering from pneumonia. Another patient was admitted at the same time.’
‘Frederik Losensky.’
‘Exactly. A sixty-seven-year-old journalist. Suspected minor heart attack. Chest pains but fully conscious. He was placed in intensive care for observation.’
‘Don’t tell me: he was in the bed next to Simon’s.’
‘That’s it. As you must have read in the press, Losensky was a serial murderer of paedophiles.’
‘The so-called Avenger.’
‘And a very God-fearing man. Even at that stage he was already in touch with the head of a child-trafficking ring. I think it was no accident that he suffered his heart attack shortly after receiving confirmation that the Dealer wanted to meet him face to face.’
‘And Losensky talked to Simon that night in intensive care?’
‘Not exactly. Simon wasn’t cap
able of holding a conversation. His temperature was so high, we didn’t expect him to survive. But for all that, or for that very reason, Losensky talked to him.’
‘Like a television presenter?’
‘In a manner of speaking. We suspect that Losensky regarded his proximity to a young, terminally ill child as a divine omen. He had burdened himself with guilt for the sake of children, after all, so he took advantage of that night in intensive care to confess. He told Simon of his murders one by one. Being their author, he could give a vivid and detailed description of them.’
‘He was deranged.’
Borchert coughed. Simon would have done likewise, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself prematurely. Not before he had understood what the two grown-ups’ conversation had to do with the hotel room in the dream from which he had just emerged.
‘Deranged, yes, but we ourselves might be unbalanced if we’d seen the child cruelty Losensky had. Whatever, Simon unexpectedly recovered and events took their course. On his tenth birthday he was put into a hypnotic trance and underwent regression. It was as if Dr Tiefensee had pricked a certain area of his subconscious with a surgical needle. The memory blister burst and Simon remembered something that had found its way through the fog of his feverish dreams and into his brain a month earlier.’
‘Losensky’s confession.’
‘Logically enough, he didn’t know how he had acquired these memories. See what I mean?’
Borchert uttered a bark of laughter. ‘I reckon it’s like finding some cash in an old pair of bell-bottoms and being unable to remember ever wearing the ugly things.’
‘Good example. You find the money and spend it because you’re bound to assume it belongs to you. Simon found a recollection of these terrible murders in his head and was firmly convinced of his own responsibility for them. That’s why he passed the lie-detector test.’
‘But how could he know about the future?’
‘Losensky finished his confession by asking Simon … Here …’
The Child Page 25