What We Become

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  In Nice, the Schützling safe (large, painted brown) was exactly as Enrico Fossataro had described it. Concealed inside a built-in mahogany cupboard in one of the study walls, it was resting on the floor surrounded by shelves lined with books, files, and papers. The safe looked daunting: a steel door with no visible keyhole or combination lock. Max examined it for a moment with the beam of light from the flashlight. There was a thick, Oriental rug next to the base, which would muffle the clinking sound of the keys if he had to try them out one by one. He shone the light on the watch on his left wrist and checked the time. This was going to be a slow job, the sort that required a fine touch and a lot of patience. He moved the flashlight again to illuminate the trail of water and mud across the parquet floor and the carpet, marking his path from the window, which he had closed behind him after forcing it open with a screwdriver. Those dirty tracks were a setback, although fortunately the window was in the study, and so everything, including his muddy footprints, was confined to the same space. Providing the door to the library remained closed, there wouldn’t be a problem. And so he went over to it, cautiously, and made sure it was locked.

  He stood still, listening for a moment, until the sound of blood rushing through his ears subsided and he could hear more clearly. The rain would disguise some of the sounds he made while working on the safe, but could also mask until it was too late other sounds that might alert him to someone approaching the study. In any event, there was little danger at that hour: the cook and gardener had gone home, the governess was resting upstairs, and the chauffeur must have been at the wheel of the car, waiting for Susana Ferriol in Cimiez. Only the maid would be on the ground floor: according to the information Max had obtained, she usually stayed up listening to the radio in a small room off the kitchen until her mistress returned. He took off his hat and raincoat, placed the bag containing the tools on the rug, and spread his hand on the cold metal of the safe.

  The locks on a Schützling were hidden beneath a molding that framed the door like a painting. After he exerted the correct amount of pressure, the molding moved aside, exposing the mechanism: four keyholes placed vertically, the top one requiring a simple key, the three others fitted with an additional combination lock. Max needed to open the bottom three first, and that would take time. He set to work, positioning the flashlight properly, selecting a key from the bunch he had in his tool bag, then proceeding to try it out in each of the three locks, to see which sang more: which was more responsive and transmitted the sounds of the inner mechanism more audibly. His sodden trousers and shoes were making him shiver with cold, hampering him, and his hands, scratched by briars on the path, were slow to find the necessary delicacy of touch. After trying every number from 0 to 19 on each combination, he went for the one at the bottom. He began slowly turning the dial, first to the left then to the right, repeating the same procedure on the other two. Once he had located what he thought was probably the right position, he went back to the first combination lock. Everything depended on the utmost precision now, and the cuts on his fingers had not only slowed him down but had smeared the key with some blood. Noticing those barely perceptible vibrations required a sensitive touch, and he cursed himself for not having thought to wear gloves outside. Finally, he came across the right combination. He glanced at his watch: twenty-four minutes for the most difficult one. Enrico Fossataro would have been three times as fast, but things were going better than expected. With a smile of satisfaction, he relaxed his hands momentarily before inserting the key in the second combination lock. Fifteen minutes later, all three combination locks were correctly aligned. Then he turned off the flashlight and paused for a rest. He lay sprawled on his back on the carpet for a few minutes, using the opportunity to listen to the silence in the house. During that time he tried to think of nothing, except the safe in front of him. The patter of rain outside had stopped, and inside nothing moved. He found himself craving a cigarette. Sitting up with a sigh, he rubbed his legs, numb from cold beneath his wet trousers and shoes, and went back to work.

  It was all a question of patience now. If these were the right keys, one of the hundred and thirty Fossataro had brought to Nice would fit the lock above the combinations. In order to find it, Max had to discover which set it belonged to and try out all the keys in that set one by one. This could take anywhere from a minute to a whole hour. Max looked again at his watch. If nothing went wrong, he should have enough time. And so he proceeded to try every key.

  Almost half an hour later, the 107th key opened the lock with a soft click and Max pulled the heavy steel door toward him with noiseless ease. The beam from the flashlight lit up shelves piled with sturdy cardboard boxes and files. There were a few items of jewelry and some money in the boxes, and documents in the files, which was where he turned his attention first. Barbaresco and Tignanello had shown him letters similar to the ones he was looking for, bearing the official Italian foreign office stamp, so that he would recognize them. He found them in one of the files: three typewritten letters each in a paper folder, numbered and dated. Bringing the light very close, he checked the letterheads, the content, and the signatures, as well as the name G. Ciano typed below. These were undoubtedly the letters. Addressed to Tomás Ferriol and dated the twentieth of July, and the first and fourteenth of August 1936, respectively.

  He pocketed the letters and replaced the file exactly where it had been. Barbaresco and Tignanello had insisted on this, so that the Ferriols wouldn’t notice immediately. In fact, before Max even began cracking the safe, he had noted the original positions of the combinations, in case he decided he needed to leave them as they were (some people were in the habit of checking the combination each time they opened their safe). But now, as he swept the flashlight beam over the study, with the forced window and muddy wet footprints everywhere, he realized it would be impossible to disguise the break-in. It would take him hours to clean up that mess, and he didn’t have the proper equipment. Besides, time was running out. Susana Ferriol might be about to take leave of her hosts in Cimiez.

  The cardboard boxes didn’t contain anything of interest. In one of them he found thirty thousand francs and a thick bundle of notes from the Spanish Republican treasury, which, unlike the currency in the nationalist zone, were quickly decreasing in value. As for jewelry, Max figured that Susana Ferriol must have another safe in her bedroom, for there was very little in the Schützling: a gold locket, a Losada hunter case pocket watch, and a pearl tie pin. There was also a money pouch containing fifty-odd gold sovereigns and an antique brooch in the shape of a dragonfly studded with emeralds, rubies, and sapphires. With a pensive expression, Max flashed the light over the tracks he had left in the study. At this stage of the game, and with a trail like that, he thought, it made little difference. The brooch and the coins were risky items, easy to identify if the police found them on him. But money was money. Untraceable almost the moment it changed hands, money had no identifying marks and no other owner besides the person carrying it. And so, before closing the safe, rubbing his fingerprints off with a handkerchief, and putting away his tools, he seized the thirty thousand francs.

  The sky is sprinkled with stars. The nocturnal view of Sorrento and the bay from the rooftop is spectacular, but Max is in no state to appreciate the scenery. Exhausted from his exertions, hampered by the rucksack on his back, he is lying next to the cornice, trying to catch his breath. Beyond the hotel buildings of the Vittoria with their bright windows lies the dark expanse of the sea, bordered with tiny lights extending along the coastline toward the distant glow of Naples.

  Somewhat recovered, the blood pulsing through his heart having calmed a little (that night he is happier than ever he gave up smoking eleven years ago), Max presses on. Slipping the rucksack off his back, he takes out the rope, knotted at fifteen-inch intervals, and looks around for something solid to secure it to. The faint lights nearby coming from the hotel allow him to see where he is going while he explores the edge of the
roof, taking care not to trip. Finally, he fastens the rope with a double sheepshank around the concrete base of the lightning rod, and to be extra safe, coils it around the metal chimney flue. Then he slips the rucksack back on, counts six paces back toward the left and, stretching out along it, the rope fastened around one of his wrists, he looks down. The Russian chess player’s suite is fifteen or twenty feet directly beneath him. He can see no light inside. Contemplating the dark abyss beneath the balcony, Max remains motionless, trembling with dread as his pulse starts to race afresh. I’m too old for this kind of caper, he thinks. The last time he found himself in a similar situation, he was fifteen years younger. Finally, he takes a deep breath and seizes hold of the rope. Grazing his knees and elbows as he clambers over the cornice and the guttering, he descends knot by knot.

  Apart from his misgivings (Max is terrified his grip will weaken or that he will suffer a dizzy spell), the descent is easier than he had expected. Five minutes later, he is standing on the balcony, on solid ground. He feels for the glass door to the unlit room. How lucky if it has been left unlocked, he thinks, donning a pair of fine rubber gloves. But it isn’t. And so he resorts to the diamond-tipped glass cutter he has used in the past. Positioning a rubber suction cup to hold in place the piece he is removing, he traces a circle six inches around the handle inside. Then he taps it gently, removes the cut out section, places it carefully on the ground, slides his hand through the hole taking care not to cut himself, and pushes down the handle. The door opens easily, and he steps across the threshold into the dark empty room.

  Max acts quickly now, following the old method. He is surprised to discover that his heart is beating calmly and regularly, as though at this stage of the game age no longer mattered, and rediscovering the old ways had given him back an energy and a professional calm that a moment ago he thought impossible. Moving with extreme caution so as not to trip over anything, he draws the curtains and takes a flashlight out of his rucksack. The apartment is spacious, but smells musty, of stale tobacco. Indeed, there is a large ashtray full of cigarette ends on a low table, next to some empty coffee cups and a chessboard with the pieces jumbled. As he walks around, the flashlight illuminates armchairs, rugs, pictures, and a door into the bedroom and bathroom. Also, the surface of a mirror, in which, as he draws closer, Max can make out his own figure dressed in black, furtive and still. Alarmed, almost, by the sudden appearance of a stranger.

  Moving the beam away, as though having given up trying to recognize himself in the mirror, Max lets his reflection slip back into the darkness. The light is now pointing at a desk covered in books and papers. He goes over to it and begins searching.

  It was still dark and raining in Nice when Max stopped the Peugeot next to Gesù church and crossed the square in his raincoat and hat, walking carelessly through the rain-splashed puddles. There was no one about. The rain seemed to appear in misty, yellow swirls around the street lamp on the corner of Rue Droite next to the closed bar. Max reached the second doorway, which was open, and walked across the interior patio, leaving behind the patter of rain outside.

  In the hallway, a dusty, bare bulb provided just enough light for him to see where he was putting his feet. On the upper landing, another light was switched on. As he mounted the stairs, the steps creaked beneath his sodden shoes, which still bore traces of mud from his recent sortie. He felt dirty, drenched, and exhausted, and wanted this to be over so that he could lie down and sleep for a while, before packing his suitcase and leaving. So that he could reflect calmly about his future. When he reached the landing, he unbuttoned his raincoat and shook the water from his hat. Then he pulled the brass doorbell and waited, with no result. This made him a little uneasy. He pulled the bell again and heard it chime inside. Nothing. The Italians should have been waiting on tenterhooks for him. Yet no one came.

  “I’m glad to see you,” said a voice behind him. Max started, dropping his hat on the ground. Fito Mostaza was sitting on the stairs leading to the next floor, looking relaxed. He was dressed in a dark, pin-striped suit with padded shoulders, and his customary bow tie. He wore neither a raincoat nor a hat.

  “It turns out you’re a responsible fellow,” he added. “Reliable.”

  He spoke with a pensive, distracted air, as though concerned about something else. Oblivious to Max’s unease.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Max stood gazing at him for a while, without replying. He was trying to figure out Mostaza’s part in all this, and where he himself stood.

  “Where are they?” he said at last.

  “Who?”

  “The Italians. Barbaresco and Tignanello?”

  “Oh, them.”

  Mostaza rubbed his chin with one hand, smiling almost imperceptibly.

  “There’s been a change of plan,” he said.

  “I know nothing about that. I’m supposed to see them. That’s what we agreed.”

  The lenses in Mostaza’s spectacles glinted as he bobbed his head with a pensive gesture then raised it again.

  “Of course . . . plans and agreements. Naturally.”

  He rose to his feet almost reluctantly, brushing off the seat of his trousers. Then he straightened his tie and walked down to where Max was standing. In his right hand was a shiny key.

  “Naturally,” he repeated, unlocking the door.

  Mostaza stood aside, politely, letting Max through. He entered, and the first thing he saw was blood.

  He has them. It was so easy finding Mikhail Sokolov’s chess notebooks, that for a moment Max wasn’t sure if they were what he’d been looking for. But now he is. A careful examination by flashlight with his reading glasses on has dispelled any doubt. Everything fits with the description Mecha gave him: four thick volumes bound in cardboard and cloth, resembling big, tattered accounts books, filled with handwritten annotations in small, compact Cyrillic script, diagrams of games, notes, references. The professional secrets of a world chess champion. The four notebooks were in full view, piled one on top of the other, among the papers and books on the desk. Max doesn’t read Russian, but he easily identified the last entry in the fourth volume: half a dozen lines in obscure figures (Q4R, P3RQ, B4R, KxPQ) jotted down next to a recent clipping from Pravda about one of the Sokolov-Keller games in Sorrento.

  With the notebooks (the book, as Mecha called them) in his rucksack, which is once more on his back, Max goes out onto the balcony and looks up. The rope is still safely in place. He gives it a tug to make sure it’s secure, before preparing his ascent. But no sooner has he made a first attempt, than he realizes he isn’t going to make it. He might have enough energy to reach the roof, but he will have difficulty climbing over the gutter and the cornice where, on his way down, he grazed his knees and elbows. He overestimated his capability. Or his strength. If he faltered, he would plunge to his death. Not to mention the effort of going back the way he came, descending the iron ladder set in the wall, fumbling in the dark, unable to see where he was putting his feet. And only his hands to cling on with.

  The realization hits him with a jolt of panic that leaves his mouth dry. He stays like that for a moment, motionless, clutching the rope. Unable to decide. Then he releases his grip, defeated. Accepting that he has fallen into his own trap. Overconfident, refusing to accept the reality of old age and exhaustion. He will never reach the roof that way, and he knows it.

  Think, he tells himself anxiously. Think carefully and quickly, or you won’t get out of here. He leaves the rope dangling (it’s not possible to pull it down from below) and goes back into the room. There is only one way out, and knowing that helps him focus on what steps to take next. Everything, he concludes, will depend on stealth. And on luck: how many people are in the building and where. Whether the guard the Russians usually leave on the ground floor also does the rounds between Sokolov’s room and the door to the garden. And so, careful not to make any noise, treading h
eel first in his rubber-soled shoes, Max walks across the room, steps out in to the corridor, and closes the door quietly behind him. There is a light outside, and a carpet extending to the elevator and the stairs, which helps him advance noiselessly. When he reaches the stair landing, he stops to listen, leaning over the stairwell. Everything is calm. He descends taking the same precautions, peering over the banister to make sure his way is still clear. He can no longer hear properly, because his heart is racing again, and the throbbing in his ears is deafening. It’s been a long time since he broke out in a sweat, he thinks. His skin was never prone to perspiring, but beneath his black trousers and sweater, he feels his undergarments soaking wet.