“Okay,” he mumbled to himself. “Now to see if this fence will kill me quickly or slowly.” He cast his eyes around the ground and found a stick not far from his feet. It would do. He picked it up and crouched low, approaching the wrought iron fence. Cautiously, he reached out, placing the stick next to one of the rods. Then he gave it a little kick with the rubber sole of his shoe sending it right up against the metal. Nothing. No sparks. No alarm tripped. All was quiet. The fence was not electrified.
“So, you’ll kill me slowly then.” Heinz sighed, and stood. The fence was at least a foot taller than his own height of six feet two inches. He gripped the bars, took a deep breath, and began climbing. It was no small effort. At the top, he hauled one leg over, and then the next, trying to avoid emasculating himself. Finally, he dropped down on the other side. “I’m too old for this shit.” He puffed, catching his breath.
He checked his watch. There were still four minutes left to get from the fence to a spot at the back of the house where he couldn’t be seen. Dark eyes gauged the distance. He was pretty sure he could make it. Towards the left-hand side was a wing of the house in complete darkness. No lights illuminated the windows on the first or second floor. One faint glow showed through a third-floor window at the very end of the building, but that was all. It seemed his best chance to stay under the radar, and if it was as deserted as it appeared, his best chance for gaining entry.
Three minutes. “Dammit.” Heinz sucked in a breath and took off running, keeping low. By the time he reached the darkened wing, the guard was coming around the corner. He didn’t have time to locate a nook, so he threw himself to the ground, rolling against the wall amid the low shrubbery. A branch scratched his cheek, taking some skin with it. Heinz stopped breathing; eyes focused like a wild, cornered animal on the booted feet walking by. The sound of snow crunching under the man’s heels seemed as loud as thunder. Louder still, was the beating of the detective’s heart when the crunching noise stopped. The guard turned, looking around. Heinz bit his lip, frozen into place. The guard reached into his hip pocket, and slowly pulled something out. The strike of a match lit up a square, rugged face with dark stubble along his jaw. He stood there, taking a long drag from his cigarette. On the ground behind him, hidden between the low shrubbery and the stone wall, Heinz waited, the cold seeping into his bones.
Five minutes passed as the armed thug enjoyed his nicotine fix. Five long minutes. Heinz considered just sneaking up behind him, and snapping his neck, anything so he could get up off the frozen ground, but he waited. Finally, the guard dropped the butt, stepped on it, and resumed his rounds. As he cleared the wing, hooking around to the right-hand side of the manor, Heinz exhaled, and got up. His knee popped, and his left side reminded him painfully that he was not a spring chicken anymore. The search began for a way inside.
The first-floor windows were secure. The only doorway along this wing was inset, at the bottom of a slope going into the back of the house. Heinz realized it was a basement entry. The lock was old-fashioned with a large keyhole, the type that accommodated large keys that most people didn’t use anymore. If he could manage to turn the tumbler just a bit, he could slide a credit card between the latch and the strike plate. He just needed a tool. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the small screwdriver set he’s purchased when he arrived. He surveyed the sizes, selecting one.
Heinz bent down, keeping to the shadows cast by the shrubbery at the top of the slope, and inserted the Phillip’s head. The tool tried to catch on the grooves inside the lock. It turned a bit, then slipped back into place with a click. Heinz cringed, and then looked over his shoulder. He knew the guard would be coming back around in less than a minute, so he waited. Within seconds, his ears picked up on the crunching of booted feet on snow. Holding his breath, he shrunk lower still, fitting his frame into the corner of the door and the side wall. The guard passed, not slowing down and stopping this time. Eight more minutes left to pick the lock.
This time, he slipped his hotel room keycard out of his pocket, prepared for that small window of opportunity when the tool caught just enough. He turned it cautiously, just shy of the point where it stops, hitting the locked tumblers. Slowly, he inserted the Kseniya’s keycard into the miniscule space between the strike plate and the latch. Wiggling the card, he inched it in like a patient lover seeking to penetrate virgin skin for the very first time. “Come on, baby. Work with me,” Heinz whispered. Finally, the card slid all the way home, and the latch clicked. This time, the sound was welcome. He pulled the doorknob, and the door cracked open. With three minutes remaining, the detective slipped inside, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow.
The interior was dark. The only light by which to see filtered in through two small, grimy basement windows. Still, he was in. Now, he needed to find the stairs, and see exactly what, and who, was above. Ten steps across the concrete floor had him at the foot of an old, wooden staircase. Twenty steps up brought him to the door. He hoped it wasn’t locked. Heinz pressed his cheek to the cold surface and listened. No sound greeted his ear. With a quick prayer, he turned the knob. As the door opened quietly, he breathed a sigh of relief. In another moment, he was through, into the hallway, and he prayed, on his way to finding answers.
A UNIFORMED BUTLER greeted the two men in the grand foyer. The servant took the overcoat of the first gentleman, showing great deference before turning to take the coat and hat of the second man, who stood, shoulders back, waiting. His graying brown hair was cut short above his large ears which seemed to protrude from beneath his head cover.
“Egor, this is Colonel-general Dmitry Vasiliev. You will make sure he enjoys himself tonight, yes?” The first gentleman addressed the butler.
“Of course, sir. Valentina,” Egor snapped his fingers and a tall, blonde woman sauntered over. She wore a sheer, black gown that hugged her curves, and nothing underneath. Her heels clicked on the marble flooring as she came to a standstill next to the men. “Please take care of the Colonel-general. Show him the menu and take his order.”
Valentina slipped her arm through the Colonel-general’s, leaning in. The man smiled, clearly pleased. He tossed a look to the gentleman. “You do know how to treat your friends well, Brezhnev.”
“Indeed, I do. I’m sure you’ll find today’s menu thoroughly satisfies your appetite.” Brezhnev nodded, a tight smile on his lips.
“And what can I do for you, Colonel-general?” Valentina pouted her full, red lips as she led the man away.
“You can order me up two of your freshest dishes. And I like them quite young. Inexperienced is best.” He patted her hand that rested on his arm. “No offense, my dear, but you’re well past the expiration date for me.”
Brezhnev waited until the Colonel-general and Valentina disappeared into the sitting room before turning to Egor. The small, tight smile on his face vanished. “Our new arrivals, are they being groomed?”
Egor stood at attention with the coats over one arm, and the Colonel-general’s hat in hand. He kept his gaze averted just south of his employer’s, never fully looking the man directly in the eye. Everyone employed in the manor knew to never make full eye contact with Vladimir Brezhnev. To do so was to put one’s own life at risk. “They are, sir. Maya has seen them bathed and prepared, and has taken them to their training in the east wing.”
Brezhnev offered a nod, and turned to go to his office, then stopped. “And who drew the lot this week?”
“Nestor, sir.” Egor waited.
“Nestor?”
“Yes, sir.”
Brezhnev chuckled, but it was without humor. “He will be no help at all. No control, that one. Send Arkady in as well but remind him he is not allowed to penetrate them or I will cut off his balls personally.”
“Very good, sir. Will that be all?”
“Da. I’ll be in my office. Unless the Colonel-general requests my company, I do not wish to be disturbed.” Brezhnev left, heading toward his office.
As he walked to the
coat room, Egor’s tense posture relaxed. Relief showed on his face as he left the foyer to put away the coats and deliver his boss’s instructions.
HEINZ CHECKED EVERY door along the corridor of the darkened wing. The only two that were unlocked opened into first, a powder room, and second, an empty sitting room. He could only speculate what lay behind the other doors. However, there was no indication anyone inhabited this floor. Halfway down the hall was a cherry wood staircase leading up. He began to climb, taking his time to make sure his shoes made no sound on the steps. Old oil paintings hung on the high-ceiling walls against a backdrop of damask wallpaper. On the second-floor landing, Heinz decided to begin at the end of the corridor and work his way back. Carpet lined the floor helping to mask his footsteps. A few doors opened showing empty bedrooms, but nothing more. At the fifth door, a sound caught his ear. Whimpering. It was faint, and female, but he heard it. He stopped and listened. Looking up, Heinz realized it came from overhead, somewhere on the third floor.
Quickly, he returned to the stairs and went up. At the top of the landing, he paused, allowing his senses to reach out, seeking evidence of anyone else around the corner. He heard nothing. Peeking around, his eyes confirmed he was alone. Moving fast, he cleared the length of the hallway, arriving near the end. He remembered seeing a dim light shining through the last window on this level while he was still outside trying to get in. Someone was in that room, someone who was crying, and female.
Outside of the carved, cherry wood door, he stood, listening. What he heard made his blood boil.
“Stop crying, bitch, and stroke it!”
“Please, don’t make me—” A soft voice replied, filled with fear.
A loud slap echoed. Heinz bit his lip, pulled out his ill-gotten gun, and without further thought, barged in, ready to shoot to kill.
A tall man in his twenties with short black hair and acne scars covering his thin face turned.
“Who the hell are you?”
Heinz’s eyes took in the scene before him. Three young girls sat naked on the side of a four-poster bed. He recognized one as the girl he’d seen trying to make a run for it from the produce truck. The other two were huddled together, obviously terrified, and seeking to comfort each other. None of them appeared older than fifteen or sixteen. In fact, the smallest one looked to be all of ten years of age.
“You sick sonofabitch! Back away from them, now! Do it, or I will shoot you where you stand!” Heinz gave the order to the stunned man. To the girls, he said, “It’s going to be okay. Cover yourselves and get over there by the wall.”
The tall man stood with his pants down and cock out. He was clearly at a disadvantage. Yet he smiled.
Heinz didn’t like this. “What the hell have you to smile about? Back away, I said!”
The man continued to grin. “I don’t think so, you stupid bastard,” his accent thick as he switched from Russian to German, recognizing Heinz’s language. “You’re just in time, Arkady.” His eyes flitted to a point over Heinz’s shoulder.
Heinz turned, seeing a large bearded man behind him, and then a split second later, a meaty fist flying straight at him. Then, everything went black.
Chapter Thirteen
PAIN SHOT THROUGH HEINZ’S skull. He felt a tremendous amount of pressure and weight sitting on his face. He struggled to open his eyes and blinked several times. Reaching up, he felt the lump. It was his nose, and he was sure it was now broken. Memory came flooding back, and he jerked upright.
“So, you’re awake now.” A deep voice spoke.
Heinz turned and focused on the well-dressed man with salt and pepper hair, and short, well-manicured beard. It was the man from the warehouse, the one who appeared in charge that day. He stood flanked by the guard from outside, and the one who’d punched his lights out.
“That’s quite a bruise you’re developing.” The man squatted down in front of Heinz, pointing at his nose. “Now, do you mind telling me just who the hell you are?”
Heinz held his tongue. He knew he was in a bad situation, and he needed a moment to think.
“I see. Not much of a talker, eh? Let me guess, a father? A brother? A jilted lover? Certainly not a dissatisfied customer, I would hope. Just why is it you’re here? Who did you hope to find?”
He seized the opportunity. “My daughter.”
The man chuckled. “And who is your daughter, and more importantly, why would she be here in my house?”
“Her name is Marlessa, and you know why.”
The man cocked his head, quiet for a moment as he stared out the window. “Arkady, is there anyone here by that name?”
“No, sir.”
He looked back at Heinz. “You see? No one here by that name. Is that what you broke into my house for? Or do you have more to share?”
The deceptively soft tone of his voice was not lost on Heinz. He knew the man was dangerous. “That is all,” he replied.
The man stood, looking down. He extended his hand to Arkady, palm up. The brute placed Heinz’s gun in it.
“It’s not police issue,” he said to himself, looking at the weapon. “In fact, the serial number has been filed off, so I’d say you probably picked this up illegally.” The man made a tsk-tsk sound while shaking a finger at him. “Still, it doesn’t mean you’re not police.” He pointed it at Heinz. “And since you’re not carrying any identification on you, I’m going to have to rely on your good manners to tell me exactly who you are.”
“You first,” Heinz shot back, then bit his wayward tongue.
He smiled. “Well, that was either very brave or very foolish, but as the host, I will set the example. I am Vladimir Brezhnev, and this is my home,” he looked around. “Well, one of them.”
Shit!
“Now, please be so kind and introduce yourself.”
Heinz thought fast, but decided he’d best keep as close to the truth as possible. “Martin Lintz.”
“And are you police?”
“I am not.” Heinz lowered his eyes, offering a cowed expression. “I’m a teacher of mathematics.”
“Mathematics, is it? Herr Lintz,” Brezhnev continued casually pointing the gun down at Heinz, “You seem to be quite a long way from Germany.”
“Austria.”
“Austria, then. How is it you think your daughter, whose home, I presume, is in Austria, would be here, inside my home, in Saint Petersburg?”
Heinz didn’t have much wiggle room anymore. He could allow himself to vent his spleen and spill all the beans, letting Brezhnev know he knew exactly who he was; the Butcher, which would probably end in his death, or he could fudge a few facts, and maybe still get out of the situation alive. Birgitta would never forgive him if he didn’t make it back home. He decided to fudge.
“She ran away. I tracked her here. I was told by the man who sold me the gun that this might be a good place to search. Apparently, he’s been here before.” He told the lie with a straight face.
Brezhnev stared at Heinz, weighing his words. He knew that Lintz hadn’t told the complete truth, but the accounting of his actions upstairs by Arkady and Nestor, the concern they said he showed for the girls, and the man’s own admission seemed to confirm, at least, the actions of a father desperate to find his child. He considered all options, but the Colonel-general’s presence swayed him. With their dealings ongoing, he couldn’t risk any scandal occurring while the man was under his roof. He would need to call in a favor.
“Arkady, please call the police and tell them we’ve caught a trespasser on the grounds. Let them deal with Herr Lintz.”
Arkady turned to leave. Brezhnev stepped closer to Heinz, squatting low once again. He leaned in, extending his hand. In his palm was the Kseniya’s room key card. “I expect that I will never see you around here again, yes?”
Heinz recognized the subtle move for what it was—they knew where to find him. “Nein, you will not.”
“Very good.” Brezhnev stood, turning away, then stopped. “And I do hope you fi
nd your daughter. Marlessa, did you say? A beautiful name. Quite unique.” He strode out of the room.
Heinz breathed a small sigh of relief, and then began to fret about the next problem; the Russian police.
The guard stood at the doorway, rifle in hand, watching. It was unnerving, and there was very little time left before he would be answering more questions. Heinz worried that his passport might not hold up to an official investigation. He didn’t have the same faith in HackTwice that Faust did. Of course, that was because he hadn’t worked with her before, but he’d worked with Herman Faust for most of his life so maybe he should simply leave his faith in the man, his friend, and hope for the best while planning for the worst. The Butcher was turning him over to the police, but he didn’t seem at all concerned about inviting the police into his home slash brothel, which meant whoever was coming, was on the Bratva’s payroll. Knowing this meant that bringing up what he saw in that upstairs bedroom was moot. His rash actions hadn’t saved those girls. By now, they were long gone, moved to another house where they would continue to be abused, raped, sold over and over again until they were no longer useful. Another piece of his soul died.
Twenty long minutes went by as Heinz racked his brain for a plan. There was no guarantee that he would be coming out of this situation alive. It could be that Brezhnev simply didn’t want the murder to occur inside his home, didn’t want the mess. An Austrian tourist dead inside his house would bring attention where none such was desired. An Austrian tourist found dead elsewhere was someone else’s problem. An Austrian tourist who went missing, just another unsolved case.
A man of medium height and broad stature entered the room. His dark eyes pinpointed Heinz where he sat. He stopped, sticking his hands inside his overcoat pockets.
The Checkpoint, Berlin Detective Series Box Set Page 55