Cut

by Marc Raabe

  She glances at her new watch, a cheap black Seiko with an alarm. It is seven minutes to eight. She still has another three hours.

  She doesn’t dare go to Cotheniusstrasse. Both Val and the Swiss police know where she lives all too well. On top of that, she doesn’t have a key any more – the key chain is in her grey summer jacket, which Val now has.

  She holes up in the Quartier Friedolin, a small dusty guesthouse with dingy beds and worn floorboards. She sets the alarm on her new watch to a quarter past eleven and falls asleep on the bed in her clothes.

  When the alarm wakes her, she can hardly manage to get up. Her muscles are even sorer than before and her body is screaming for a coffee. She grabs the leather holdall and staggers out of the Quartier Friedolin across Bayreuther Strasse. At the metro station, she buys two extra-strong coffees in paper cups, sits on a bench and drinks them. Then, still tired, she takes the first available taxi. The city speeds past in an endless pattern of dark and light strips of colour like loose threads.

  The black pavement of the Wannseebadweg shines under the deep clouds. Liz stares at the scattered raindrops as they drift through the beams of the headlights. Countless times she’s driven along this road to go swimming. In front of her, the street bears gently left until a small nondescript bridge – the only access to the island of Schwanenwerder.

  ‘Thanks. You can let me out here,’ Liz says.

  The taxi driver pulls over to the edge of the road and stops.

  ‘That’ll be twenty-seven fifty.’

  Liz hands him three tenners and gets out. A cold gust of wind blows over the cab and into her face and through the knit of her jumper. Liz zips her jacket up to her chin and pulls the dark hat down to her eyebrows. Her fingers tightly clutch the handle of the bag.

  The taxi turns and its tail lights vanish around the bend. It’s silent except for the whisper of the light rain and the soft sound of Liz’s steps.

  She follows the streetlights, which have been there since the thirties, and guide her to the bridge.

  The island of Schwanenwerder is just twenty-five hectares large, located in the Havel River at the outlet of the Greater Wannsee on the edge of Berlin. Since the time of the German Empire, it has been the domicile of Berlin industrialists and bankers. In the thirties, Nazi bigwigs like Joseph Goebbels and Albert Speer were drawn to Schwanenwerder, and after the war they were followed by the publishing tycoon Axel Springer – as well as Victor von Braunsfeld.

  Liz had called the island ‘Alcatraz for the rich’ in her documentary on von Braunsfeld, alluding to the high walls, thick hedges and sensor-controlled cameras that surrounded the villas with no names on the doorbells.

  As Liz crosses the bridge, the wind whips against her face, cold and sharp. Then she suddenly feels small hard stones fly at her skin and hears them pattering all around her. Hail, she thinks, disconcerted. It’s hail. But just a moment later, the raining ice subsides. Arriving on the island she hides behind the protective hedges. Old treetops creak above her. She can’t help but think about the impenetrable blackness of the forest in Switzerland and it gives her goosebumps.

  Needless fear is not permitted.

  At the turn-off from the Inselstrasse, she decides to take the longer route and follows the one-way street, which circles the island like a hangman’s noose. She walks in the direction of the traffic; if someone else drives down the road, she wants to have the headlights at her back instead of in her face.

  But she’s lucky. The street is deserted.

  About ten minutes later, she reaches Braunsfeld’s property. A three-and-a-half-metre-high wrought-iron fence runs parallel to the street. Behind it a dense evergreen hedge shields the villa from prying eyes. Liz stops. The entrance is located about twenty metres down the road, blocked by a massive double-winged gate, which is flanked by two ornate brown brick columns. From nearly four metres up, two surveillance cameras are pointed down at the gate. The glowing red LEDs on them dispel any doubt about whether the cameras are on and functioning.

  Liz knows that it makes no sense to ring the bell. Victor von Braunsfeld can’t stand late visitors, especially when they come unannounced. The bell has probably been turned off anyway.

  She puts down her bag and looks up at the fence. Comprising tall rods topped with a series of long metal spikes, it towers above her in the night air like spears.

  Liz grits her teeth. She reaches through the bars, rustles the hedge and then waits. Where the hell are the dogs?

  Liz opens the holdall and throws one of the bones over the fence. She takes out one of the clamps. Her physical condition is far from good. Even if she were as fit as she had been before being kidnapped, it still would’ve been hard, but now? And with her baby belly on top of it?

  Hurry up, damn it. A car could come at any moment.

  She takes a deep breath and then she sets the first screw clamp about seventy centimetres high on one of the bars of the fence and tightens it with all of her strength. She tries shaking it to make sure it’s not going to move and then she peers through the thick foliage of the hedges to try to catch a glimpse of the villa. Behind the dark green foliage, she thinks she can make out a few bright spots.

  Still no dogs. Strange.

  She attaches the second clamp at chest level, a bit off to the side from the first one, then the third at head height and the fourth and fifth side by side, as far as her arms can reach.

  Her heart is pounding and she can feel the exertion in every one of her overworked muscles. She grabs the holdall and puts her arms forward through the handles, so that the bag hangs protectively over her stomach like an airbag. She shoves the last clamp into her mouth and bites down on the cold metal.

  And go.

  Liz puts one foot on the lowest clamp, grabs the bars of the fence with both hands and carefully pulls herself up. The clamp holds. But she is trying to hold as much of her weight as possible with her arms to keep from putting too much weight on the clamps. Then she puts her left foot on the step at chest-height. The metal of the clamp in her mouth tastes repulsively of oil. She puts her head back, sees the metal spikes at the top of the fence and her whole body seizes up. She steps out of herself, looks down at herself from above, how she’s hanging on the fence. Snapshots of the last few days flash in her mind: her escape, Yvette’s head smeared with blood, the stolen BMW, breaking into the boutique, the two local police whom she threatened with a gun. And now this.

  Breathe. Keep going.

  A quick glance down at Inselstrasse. She stops short. Past the bend, there is a faint light flickering on the street. Please, not now.

  She hurries to get her right foot on the next clamp, pulling herself upwards.

  Now she can hear the engine – the muffled, powerful rumbling of a sports car. The headlights appear and raindrops sparkle in their light. Left foot up, right foot follows. She is standing on the last two clamps about two metres above the ground, but it’s not far enough to reach the top of the fence. She hooks her left arm into the fence, uses her right to take the last clamp out of her mouth and affixes it to the square rod at around waist height. The sound of the motor approaches like a growling dog. She gasps from the strain, as she simultaneously tries to hold on and close the clamp as tightly as possible.

  Now.

  Her foot steps on the clamp and she pulls herself up with the fence posts. The pointed tips of the fence are now at waist height. Just as she lies on her stomach with the protective reinforced leather bag between her and the spikes, the clamp under her foot gives way. With an ugly noise, the metal clamp scrapes its way down the iron fence. Panicked, Liz grabs the metal rods and flails her legs around. The way she is lying there, the tops of the spikes are a knife edge. Her head and chest are projecting out over von Braunsfeld’s property, her legs and bottom over the side of the street. The bag is the only thing protecting her from being impaled. All of a sudden she is terrified of dying there and then, on a fence with iron spikes during a clumsy and bumbling attempt to br
eak into her boss’s house, having made the rash decision to risk her life just because she thinks she needs to search for evidence, which should actually be a job for the police. She feels like the free fall is finite, that the ground is getting dangerously close, that she will burst open against it, just because she isn’t willing to give in to her fear.

  In slow motion, she tips back in the direction of the street. Her head hovers just above the spikes; if she were to slip now, they would pierce her voice box and then her brain. In a desperate last effort to clear the top, her arms burn like fire as she tries to pull her upper body over, shifting her centre of gravity. Her stomach is in pain and tears well up in her eyes.

  The sports car’s headlights approach the fence mercilessly. Like a row of spearheads, the tips of the fence bore into the thick leather of the bag. Bright halogen lights hit the wall of the neighbouring property and the sports car’s growl is dangerously close. Liz can feel the blunt pressure of the fence spikes against her chest. A bit further, just a little bit further, damn it. Finally, she tilts forward over the fence, head first into Victor von Braunsfeld’s property.

  The hedge slows her plummet to the ground; a few sharp broken branches scratch her face. At that moment, the sports car roars past, a yellow Ferrari, low and flat.

  Breathing heavily, Liz picks herself up. Her muscles are trembling uncontrollably. The ground beneath her feet doesn’t feel real; she still feels like she’s falling. She listens in the darkness, expecting to hear a distant barking or the galloping of paws, but everything is silent.

  Previously, she would’ve bet anything that Victor engaged a private security firm for his safety but ever since her visit to his villa, she knows better.

  ‘I have paid a fortune to avoid having any annoying neighbours or snoopers staring into my garden. I want my peace and quiet and that’s that. How would having a pair of brawny birdbrains patrolling my garden help me anyway? Birdbrains who are supposed to chase away other birdbrains? The dogs are enough for me,’ he grumbled and then looked at his two Dobermans, Alistair and Dexter, who had settled at Liz’s feet with Dexter on his back, letting Liz scratch his stomach.

  She has to smile when she thinks of the two animals. Nevertheless, she won’t delude herself – the two Dobermans are dangerous fighting machines, and there is no guarantee that they will be as docile in their master’s absence.

  Straining to see, she peers towards the lakeside. Between the tree trunks, she can make out a few lit windows at the villa in the distance. She slowly staggers towards the lights. Her boots leave deep prints in the wet ground. The building seems like it’s moving behind the trees, as if it wanted to hide.

  In daylight, the villa looks like a quaint Belgian country lodge, constructed out of light-brown fired brick in numerous patterns, its white windows and doors framed with a wide sandstone frieze, and the pitched roof lined with slate tiles. The floor plan, a massive square, had been laid out with a classic U-shape for the entry foyer. Arches project out from the middle of it, covered with a wide balcony that is supported by four round columns. Behind the columns is the entrance, a wide, double-sided oak door.

  Now, at night, the villa is more like a gloomy fortress, whose massive silhouette rises out of the darkness.

  As Liz climbs the imposing stone steps in front of the entrance, two spherical lamps turn on, one on either side of the steps. Undeterred, Liz squints and goes up the staircase between the columns. The crunch of gravel beneath her boots echoes under the porch. On the black-brown oak of each of the two doors is a shiny brass lion’s head with a circular doorknocker in its mouth. To the right of the door is a brass bell with a polished nameplate beside it, but no name. According to the nameplate, Victor von Braunsfeld does not exist.

  Liz reaches for the doorknocker, assuming that the bell is off, but the door swings open before she reaches it. Liz freezes mid-motion. She is staring down the barrel of a hunting rifle. The owner has his cheek resting on the butt of the rifle and glares at her over the notch-and-bead sights. His stance suggests he’s well-practised in handling the weapon. His snow-white hair is tangled, his brow furrowed.

  ‘Hello, Victor,’ Liz says softly and takes a half step back. ‘Are you alone?’

  The old man squints – he’s short-sighted. His bony right hand is pressing the trigger. A hoarse whimper makes Liz look down. The two Dobermans are standing in the doorway beside their master. Slowly, almost tenderly, she shows the animals her palms. ‘Hello Al, hello Dex.’

  The larger of the two black watch dogs comes closer, sniffing at her, nudges her finger with his brown snout and then starts to lick Liz’s palm where it still smells like the dog bones.

  The old man squints down at his guard dog and then looks up again at the woman in front of his gun.

  ‘Dog bones,’ she says, winking at him.

  ‘Liz?’ he asks incredulously. He slowly lowers the rifle. ‘Have you gone mad? How did you get in here anyway?’ His eyes run across her lean, scratched face. ‘You look like a plucked chicken.’

  Liz forces a smile.

  ‘What are you doing just standing around like an idiot?’ von Braunsfeld snorts. ‘Come in! And then I want a full explanation of what this nonsense is all about.’

  ‘Only if you’re alone,’ Liz says softly.

  Von Braunsfeld furrows his brow. ‘I’m always alone. You know that.’

  Chapter 46

  Berlin – 28 September, 12.36 a.m.

  The door closes behind Liz and the sound is dark and regal as it echoes back through the marble entry hall. A massive nineteenth-century gas lantern hangs in the middle of the stucco-framed ceiling, its light casting flickering shadows of her and Victor von Braunsfeld on the floor.

  Von Braunsfeld pushes open the door to the living area and leans his rifle against the cloth-covered wall. Liz first sees the fireplace, where some logs are smouldering. The photos are still on the mantel.

  ‘Sit down.’ Von Braunsfeld gestures to the three sofas, which are grouped around a large glass table in the middle of the room.

  Liz looks down at her muddy boots. Von Braunsfeld waves for her to come in. ‘The floor can handle it; bog oak. At night, you can’t see the dirt, and in the morning, someone will come and wipe it away.’

  Liz nods. Her eyes wander across the paintings in the room, which include a Monet and two Renoir nudes lit with spotlights. She looks at the black-pronged chandelier, taupe curtains and modern beige sofas, remembering the extravagant furnishings from her first visit and the strange mixture of styles – modern, classical, art nouveau. At the time, when Liz had filmed the interview with von Braunsfeld in this room, she had been confused by the inconsistencies – as if von Braunsfeld lived between the worlds.

  ‘You remember our agreement?’ he had asked, as she sat down on the sofa back then. The small red light on the camera was already glowing. Liz nodded. She had no other choice.

  ‘Of course. No questions about the family.’

  She stares over at the fireplace now, the flames licking the charred wood.

  ‘Cognac? Sherry?’ Victor von Braunsfeld is over at the bar, swirling the contents of two different crystal decanters. ‘You look like you could use some.’

  Liz shakes her head. ‘Water.’

  Von Braunsfeld shrugs and pours an amber liquid into a cut-glass tumbler in front of him. Then he clumsily leans forward and removes a bottle of Perrier from an elegantly panelled fridge.

  Liz walks up to the fireplace. Her eyes fly over the framed photos on the mantelpiece. She can feel the heat of the fire and the warmth makes her tremble lightly. After the torture of the last few weeks, it’s as if the sun were hugging her. She pulls off her cap. Her red hair sticks out in all directions. She tries to smooth it flat out of habit. Her attention is mainly directed at the photos, particularly one, which draws her gaze. Despite the heat, she gets a chill.

  ‘So,’ von Braunsfeld growls.

  Liz winces. Von Braunsfeld’s eyes rest on her and she feels
as transparent and fragile as a glass.

  ‘Considering that you just strolled in here like this, you seem awfully nervous. You owe me an explanation. Why are you here in the middle of the night? What’s this all about? And what’s wrong with you? What have you done?’

  Without a word, Liz picks up the second photo from the left, turns to von Braunsfeld and holds it out to him. Her fingers are trembling. The photo has a simple silver frame and shows a beautiful woman with long ebony hair, dark circles beneath her eyes and a stoic, patrician bearing. In front of her is a teenager; blond, with watery blue eyes, an exact copy of her own. She has her arm lovingly around his shoulder.

  Von Braunsfeld furrows his brow.

  ‘That’s your son, isn’t it?’

  ‘Markus, yes. With my wife Jill.’

  ‘Didn’t your son have another, middle name?’

  Von Braunsfeld hesitates a moment. ‘Markus Valerius, yes, why?’

  Valerius. Liz’s blood runs cold. ‘How long ago would you say your son disappeared?’

  Von Braunsfeld narrows his eyes. ‘You break into my house in the middle of my night to ask me this? Have you become some kind of gossip reporter? Or do you just need this for your celebrity scrapbook to be complete?’

  ‘Neither,’ Liz says softly and her eyes fixate on him. ‘You want an explanation for why I’m here? This here,’ she waves the photo around, ‘is the explanation. How long has your son been missing?’

  Von Braunsfeld takes a big sip from the crystal glass without letting Liz out of his sight. ‘Since October 1979, a few days after his eighteenth birthday.’

  October ’79. Liz feels a tingling sensation all the way down to her fingertips.

  ‘It was a long time ago, almost thirty years. I have since resigned myself to the fact that he is probably dead. In the photo,’ he comes slowly towards Liz, takes the picture from her hand and puts it back in its place, ‘he’s fourteen. It’s the last picture of them together. A few months later, Jill died.’