Brandenburg: A Thriller

by Glenn Meade

  “And a dead man.”

  “And a dead man,” he agreed.

  “So you’ll be careful.” She looked hard at him, her face filled with concern.

  “I promise.”

  Erica sipped her brandy, held the glass tensely in both hands. “What about the men who killed Rodriguez?”

  “What about them?”

  “Won’t they come looking for you? Won’t they be afraid you’ll tell the police?”

  Hernandez smiled, seeing her fear, trying to sound unafraid, trying to reassure her. “No chance. For one thing, they don’t know me; they’ve never seen me. They don’t know I exist.”

  “But what happens once the story breaks?”

  Rudi took a sip of coffee. “Look, I’m a reporter. We’ll have to burn that bridge when we cross it . . . if there’s a story,” he added. “And besides, I have one or two friends—policía—who’ll protect me if I need protection. You remember Sanchez.”

  She nodded. Sanchez was a detective captain in the policía. “Too bad he and I didn’t meet.”

  “A good man,” Rudi said. “Next time . . .”

  Meanwhile, the woman saw him reach into his pocket and take out a bunch of keys. He played with them idly.

  Rudi Hernandez was a handsome man. His brown hair, cut in a boyish fringe, made him look younger than his years. He smiled easily, as if life were constantly fun, constantly amusing. Even the noticeable scar that ran jaggedly across his right cheek was not unbecoming. It gave him an almost dashing, swashbuckling appearance. He toyed with the keys, watching her watch them, as he slipped them between his fingers. He smiled at her. “Like I told you last night, everything solid I have on these people is in a safe place. So don’t worry, Erica, I’ll be okay.”

  She smiled back. Her hand moved to touch his, and he slipped the keys back in his pocket.

  “Be sure you are. You’re a good man, Rudi, and I care about you. I want you to be here the next time I come.”

  A loudspeaker announced her flight.

  He walked with her to the departure gate, carrying her hand luggage. As they stopped at the security gate, he handed across her bag. “Give my love to everyone.”

  “I will.”

  She moved up to him to kiss his cheek. “Auf Wiedersehen, Rudi.”

  “Auf Wiedersehen, Erica. Have a pleasant flight.”

  He watched her pass the security gate. On the other side, she turned and waved. He waved back before she disappeared from view.

  He heard the public-address system crackle to life again, a shrill, metallic voice filling the terminal.

  “Señor Rudi Hernandez, please come to the information desk. Señor Rudi Hernandez to the information desk, please.”

  • • •

  The girl at the desk handed him the message. A telephone number was written on the slip of paper. There was no name. He found a telephone booth and dialed the number. After four rings, there was an answer.

  “Sí?” a male voice said.

  “This is Rudi Hernandez. Someone at this number left me a message to call.”

  “Yes, Señor Hernandez, one moment please.” It was more like three minutes before a second voice came on the wire. This one Rudi recognized.

  “Rudi, my friend.” It was Captain Vellares Sanchez. “I only have a moment.”

  “So what’s happening?” Rudi asked quickly, not wasting time on a greeting. They were close friends; they didn’t need to oil the social gears.

  “This is off the record, but one good turn deserves another.” There was a pause, and then Sanchez went on. “Do you remember the old man you suggested I keep my eye on?”

  “Tsarkin?”

  “Nicolas Tsarkin, yes, that man.”

  “What about him?”

  “I’m up on Calle Iguazu. Number Twenty-Three.” That was Tsarkin’s address, in the city’s wealthiest suburb. “Maybe you’d like to join me.”

  “Why, what’s up?” Rudi asked with growing excitement. He had been there, parked across the street, watching. Watching because Rodriguez had told him to. Watching and taking photographs of the big house with the white walls where the old man Tsarkin lived, the old man Rodriguez had told him to watch.

  “Tsarkin’s dead,” Sanchez said. “Suicide.”

  Rudi thought. First Rodriguez, now Tsarkin. Both dead. “I’ll be right there. Give me twenty minutes.”

  NORTHEASTERN CHACO, PARAGUAY. NOVEMBER 23

  Four hundred miles away, darkness descended as the tall, silver-haired man sat in the cane chair on the veranda. His face was wrinkled with age, his eyes deep set and intense. He wore a fresh white shirt open at the neck and his light cotton pants were crisply pressed.

  Beyond the wooden veranda, the rain fell in heavy sheets. A light was on overhead, moths buzzing around the shade. The man’s silver hair shone under the light, and his tanned features looked handsome.

  A boy served him iced tea from a teak tray, adding two spoonfuls of sugar to the glass. Jade-green jungle lay beyond the downpour, thick with bamboo and fragrant mango trees.

  As the silver-haired man stared out at the drenching rain, footsteps echoed on the veranda’s floorboards.

  Kruger appeared, smoking a cigarette. The security chief wore a gray sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal thick, muscular arms. He sat in the cane chair opposite, a paper in his hand.

  The silver-haired man smiled at the servant boy. “Leave us, please, Emilio.”

  The nut-brown face smiled back before he left. “Sí, señor.”

  Kruger’s stocky frame creaked the cane chair. An insect crawled across the table. Kruger flicked it away.

  “A message from Meyer,” he said, waving the paper, “confirming for the twenty-fifth.”

  “So, everything is on schedule?” The old man sipped the iced tea.

  Kruger nodded. “Everything. We meet Meyer in Asunción. Tsarkin has arranged for a suite in the Excelsior. We leave here on the sixth. That’s also confirmed. As is the stopover in Mexico City with Haider.”

  The silver-haired man spoke softly, but his voice was compelling, and Kruger listened respectfully.

  “Before we leave, I want everything in this house destroyed. Everything we’re not taking must be burned. Nothing must be left behind. As if we had never existed. You’ll see to it, Hans?”

  Kruger inflected his head in reply.

  “Thank you, Hans.”

  The security chief moved into the house, his footsteps echoing on the floorboards.

  Alone now, the silver-haired man removed his wallet from the inside pocket of his linen jacket and slipped out a photograph. The grainy print showed a blond young woman and a dark-haired man.

  He stared down at the photograph as if mesmerized.

  4

  ASUNCIÓN, PARAGUAY. NOVEMBER 23

  A high wall surrounded the perimeter of the property, but Hernandez could see the expansive, sun-washed lawns as he drove up toward the house. House was not the word: the property was a large estate, barely visible beyond the pepper and palm trees that lined the long driveway. It stood on a hill overlooking the city, large, two stories high, the bland, gray-painted exterior imposing but not inviting attention.

  The wrought-iron front gates were open, and Hernandez was about to drive the rusting old red Buick through when he saw the young policía step forward from behind the cover of the wall, hands dug into the leather belt that held his holstered pistol.

  He raised his hand for Hernandez to stop. Hernandez hit the brakes abruptly and leaned out of the window, flashed his press identity card as he smiled, tried to look friendly.

  The young policía checked the identity card, stone-faced. Hernandez said, “Nicolas Tsarkin. Old guy. Suicide. I’m here to cover the story for La Tarde.”

  The policía nodded. “Yes, Señor Hernandez. I was expecting you. Captain Sanchez left word.”

  Hernandez looked up at the house in the distance. “Is Vellares up there now?”

  “Sí, señor, he’s wait
ing for you.” He gestured through the open gate, and Hernandez passed through.

  The old guy, Tsarkin, had had money. Lots of it, for sure.

  The manicured lawns stretched down from the house for more than a hundred yards. Hernandez could make out the house beneath the red, pantiled roof. He glanced to the left and right as he drove up the asphalt driveway; beyond the pepper trees, yellow and pink hibiscus were in bloom.

  The gardens were something else. Mango trees, peach trees, a couple of coconut palms, their fronds heavy and limp in the breezeless, hot afternoon air. They were the best-kept gardens he had seen in Asunción.

  He kept the old Buick at a slow pace all the way up, taking in the place, remembering how he had wondered what it would look like beyond the white walls that led up from the road below, something telling him there was more to be learned here in this house than what Rodriguez had told him.

  Halfway up the hill, the Buick’s engine started to groan, racking the old rusted chassis.

  He swore.

  The big old American Buick was ready for the scrap heap. Fifteen years old, a hundred and fifty thousand miles on the reconditioned engine. It had been a trusted friend for a long time, but he badly needed a new car. He took a little pressure off the accelerator. The car stopped groaning, then started up again after another twenty yards. He was coming around the bend now, seeing the house clearly and unobstructed for the first time: big and expensive-looking.

  Thirty yards from where the asphalt driveway became gravel, the Buick gave out, the engine not responding to his foot as he pumped the accelerator hard, the car coasting along now, the road still a little uphill. He swung the wheel to the left and pulled over onto the grass shoulder, slammed the steering wheel with his fist.

  Hernandez swore again, switched off the ignition, and looked up at the entrance. A blue-and-white cop car was parked on the gravel driveway. The big front door of the house opened and the familiar bulk of Vellares Sanchez moved out into the sunlight, the hint of a smile on his face.

  Hernandez climbed out of the car. Sanchez waved. Hernandez waved back and walked up toward the house.

  • • •

  Vellares Sanchez was forty, a large man with dark, hooded eyelids who always looked like he needed a good night’s sleep. His thinning black hair was combed across his head in wisps. The white linen suit he wore was crumpled and ill-fitting. Everything about him looked in disarray. But Hernandez knew that was all part of the detective’s act. Behind his hooded, sleepy eyes was a sharp, probing intelligence. Rudi Hernandez learned early on not to underestimate Vellares Sanchez.

  He was a man of few words but of great warmth. And as Hernandez approached, he held out his hand. His grip was firm, but before he got to what was obviously on his mind, he nodded to Hernandez’s car.

  “What’s wrong with that heap of junk?” he asked, smiling.

  “The choke’s been acting up. Floods the engine. It’ll be okay once the sun dries it out.”

  Sanchez examined the young man standing before him. Hernandez was tall, brown-haired, pale-skinned, and handsome. He wore his clothes loosely, like a lecturer from the universidad. He could have passed for a college teacher were it not for the jagged scar that ran across his right cheek.

  They had known each other for ten years. Rudi was a fine reporter. He had a dogged energy and broke more than one case before the policía did. He was also a good man, and kind. There was a girl he kept in the barrio, not for sex—she wasn’t his mistress—but because she didn’t have everything in the head like other people did, and because she needed help. He gave it without asking for medals.

  Hernandez was looking at him now with twinkling eyes, a smile on his face, but something else, too. Excitement? Fear? Sanchez took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Hernandez. He lit them both and looked at the young man.

  “A few days ago you told me to keep an eye on this old man, Rudi. And now he’s dead. Any thoughts?”

  Hernandez looked around at the lush gardens, then back at the house. The smile grew broader. “Two come to mind. You can’t take it with you, and money can’t buy happiness.”

  “It sure can’t buy good health, my friend.” Sanchez drew on his cigarette, coughing.

  “Was that why the old guy killed himself, because he was sick?”

  “He was sick for sure. But whether or not he killed himself because of that . . . well, we’ll have to wait and see.” He poked a thick finger in Hernandez’s direction. “I’m still waiting to know what exactly made you curious about Señor Tsarkin. You said he was connected with your friend Rodriguez, the smuggler. But what’s the connection? Apart from the fact that they’re both now dead.”

  Hernandez rubbed his chin. “I don’t know, Vellares. I’m still working on it. I’ll need more time.”

  “But you’ll let me know when you’ve got something?”

  “As always,” Hernandez answered.

  The two men had long ago worked out a modus operandi. Some cases they worked closely together, sharing information; others they kept a professional distance. Sanchez understood that he’d be the first to know when Hernandez had found whatever it was that sent him sniffing around this very rich and now very dead old German.

  Hernandez reached into the back pocket of his corduroy pants and pulled out a wire-bound notepad, searched in his pockets for something to write with. “You mind if I take some notes?”

  Sanchez shook his head. “Of course not. Only, my men from the forensic department haven’t finished yet.”

  Hernandez nodded. “How long will they be?”

  “They’re almost done.”

  “You got a pen I could borrow?”

  “You still borrowing pens? Reporters are supposed to carry pens.”

  “I keep losing them. Holes in my pockets,” said Hernandez, shrugging a smile.

  Sanchez handed a pen to Hernandez. “It was the same ten years ago, in the courts. How many pens you owe me now? Holes in your head, amigo.” Sanchez went to turn. “Come inside. When the men finish, you can take a look around.” There was enthusiasm in his voice now as he ground out his cigarette with the heel of his shoe. “You ought to see the place. This old guy had money to burn.”

  “Tell me . . . ,” said Hernandez, and followed Sanchez inside.

  • • •

  Hernandez looked around the house in amazement, but pretending more surprise than he felt, because this was how he imagined a rich man like Tsarkin might live.

  The crystal chandelier in the hallway, the sweeping staircase, the dining room with the silver candlesticks and the hand-carved chairs of solid oak, the kitchen that was bigger than his whole apartment. There was a Jacuzzi with gold-plated taps, and a tennis court on the back lawn.

  The servants’ quarters were near the outdoor swimming pool. Four servants, Sanchez told him, and three gardeners. They had all left for the afternoon, after Sanchez’s men had questioned them.

  Sanchez kept the study on the ground floor until last. The forensic men were finishing as they came into the hallway from the kitchen. Sanchez caught one of the men by the arm and took him aside to talk in private. When they had finished, Sanchez crossed back to where Hernandez stood, examining an oil painting of a sleek jaguar in a jungle setting. The painting was unsigned, but not bad. A good amateur, Sanchez thought.

  “Well?” Hernandez asked.

  “Suicide,” said Sanchez. “No question. One less problem for me to worry about. We have a little time before they remove the body. You want to see Tsarkin?”

  Hernandez nodded, and Sanchez led the way.

  The door into the study was open, the room large, like all the others. The first thing Hernandez noticed was the painting in a gilded frame swung back on hinges to reveal a safe in the wall, its gray metal door ajar. Books lined the shelves along three walls. Hernandez looked around the room but couldn’t see the body. His eyes went back to the safe just as Sanchez pointed toward the window.

  “He’s
over there, behind the desk.”

  Hernandez crossed to the big polished desk and looked over, saw the trousered legs of the man first, then the pools of blood on the gray carpet. The man’s head was covered with a bloodied white handkerchief. Hernandez suppressed the nausea he felt in the pit of his stomach and knelt down for a closer look.

  “It’s not pleasant. He shot himself through the mouth,” Sanchez said.

  Hernandez saw that the handkerchief was soaked through in sticky blood. As he pulled back the material, he felt the congealing blood come unstuck from the dead man’s face. He nearly vomited.

  The face itself was almost unrecognizable above the lips, the shattered jaw set in a final, contorted grimace, as if the dead man had feared the last moment before the gun had exploded and the bullet penetrated the roof of the mouth, shattering the cranium. The old man’s wrinkled claw of a hand was raised and crooked, as if he were waving a grotesque good-bye.

  Hernandez let the bloodied handkerchief fall back into place and stood, seeing the gun then, big and frightening on the gray carpet a yard away.

  Sanchez looked across at him. “You okay?”

  Hernandez swallowed. “Sure.”

  “It must have been quick. No pain. Not the worst way to go, amigo.”

  Hernandez nodded.

  “How much do you know about him?” Sanchez asked, walking over to sit in a comfortable leather chair beside the coffee table.

  “Not much. No family. Retired businessman. Owned a number of businesses, import-export mainly. German, emigrated after the war. Made very little impact in this country, despite his wealth. Except for that, you’d hardly know he was here.”

  “You know about as much as I do about this man, Rudi,” Sanchez observed. “He was a cipher. No religion, no charities, no notable vices. He just made money. Interesting.”

  “Do you know how old he was?” Rudi asked, notebook open, pad ready.

  “Late eighties, maybe more? I’m not sure exactly just yet.” Sanchez drew on his cigarette, coughed out smoke. “He had a long life. Hope I’m as lucky.”