by Tanja Pleva
Brazil Organ music filled the high halls that were decorated with thick dark beams. Heinrich was led through the defunct monastery, past the wall paintings depicting Saint Blasius and other martyrs, past statues of Saint George piercing the dragon, Evil, with a lance.
They crossed a courtyard, paved with small stones and in its center, an old tree was stretching gristly branches. Wherever he looked, his eye was caught by simple beauty. This is the way it should be he thought and passed a gate that was crowned by the emblem of Angel-and-Faun. He smiled. Here they would be able to devote themselves to the world's salvation.
Their footsteps echoed through two further marble halls, sparsely furnished, until they stood before a wide door.
His dark-skinned companion knocked and waited for permission to open.
'Come in, Fra Heinrich.'
The blond hulk entered and found himself straight away embraced. 'We have been eagerly waiting for your arrival.'
Another two men rose, dressed in white robes that displayed the red Knight's Cross, and they stretched their hands out.
'Welcome to your new home', said Fra Chlodio and Fra Ladislaus unison. 'Everything is prepared.'
Heinrich felt pleasant. The long journey to the 2.3 million cluster of São Paolo had been worth it. Arriving in the tumultuous city after the long time spent in the countryside had been almost frightening.
He received a robe too, and then he was led on through a corridor that opened towards a splendid garden of exotic flowers, such as rare orchids and butterflies.
For the first time in eight years he felt at home, in safety. And finally the door to a dream given up long ago, opened.
'Subjects are well provided for, Fra Heinrich', said Fra Ladislaus, pulling the blanket from a cage that stood in the middle of the room.
Wide eyes rushed from one to another. There was a young girl, not more than fourteen years old, fully naked and opening her mouth for a shout. But there was no sound.
'We cut her vocal chords.'
Contently nodding, everybody looked at the subject in the cage.
'Is she…'
'Yes, she is ripe.'
He could feel his manhood growing. How he wished to give into his desire for this young flesh. But this Order had been founded to implant racial ideal states into the underdeveloped parts of the world and to support their expansion. Everything ugly and nasty had entered the world because the Rules of Purity had not been observed. And he had broken them already once. That must not happen again.
His father had always said: A decent origin is an obligation, of that you always should be aware. Intercourse with inferior humans will be tolerated under no circumstances.
'Well. We may start then.' He looked around. The room was well equipped. They could go on right from where they had stopped.
19.
Hamburg 'You've been off, Mr. Wimmer? May I ask from where you came this morning?' Sam began the questioning.
'I have no idea what business of yours that might be: what a taxpayer paying your salary is doing in his leisure time. Well, if I may go home afterwards I may answer your question.'
Jens Wimmer looked alternately at Sam and Juri who observed him unemotionally and waited in vain for a response.
'I spent a few days in Barcelona. Is that a crime?'
'Until this morning?'
'Yeah, until this morning.'
'Got any proof?'
'There's the invoice of the pension in my pocket, tickets and boarding pass, too.'
'Do you speak Spanish, Mr. Wimmer?'
'Me going to Barcelona wouldn't imply that I spoke Spanish, would it?' Jens Wimmer was annoyed and expressed his unkind stance much too clearly. He took off his cap and scratched his baldhead, then he put it on again and crossed his arms over his chest.
Sam looked at Juri and gave a sign to continue the interrogation. He had placed himself in a chair in one corner of the room and wondered whether he should calm Juri down. He decided against it.
The lab in Paris had examined the ink on the small piece of paper and found that this was no usual red ink but blood. Human blood, blood group A+.
Jasmin Rewe had had 0+, as had her husband and Dr. Steiner. Only Katarin Gromova had had A+. Now they checked whether it had been her blood that had been used to write the lines. There was, as yet, no confirmation from Barcelona that the first lines had also been written with blood. That the murderer had left traces at both crime scenes forebode ill, indicating that he was well organized. Sam did not believe in neglect, therefore. Rather they were dealing with somebody who felt like moving on safe territory.
'What kind of relationship did you have to Jasmin Rewe?' Juri went on.
Wimmer hesitated for a moment. 'We met on an online dating site.' Then, suddenly, he seemed to get it. 'No, I won't believe this! This must be a joke. That bitch gave me to the cops?' Disbelievingly, he shook his head.
'Why do you think she did that?'
'You can't be serious! I saw her there by chance and spoke to her. Is that a crime?'
'By chance? You followed her into the hotel, you know.'
'That's not true at all.'
'How is it then that you're carrying some nice hairs of her around?'
Wimmer's eyes twitched nervously. He struggled for an explanation, but finally he gave up and told the policemen everything, except for a few trifles, such as that he had indeed followed her to the hotel.
Juri pressed the remote control and showed the hotel recordings to Jens Wimmer, while Sam got up, stepped around the table and sat down on its edge. 'Jasmin Rewe was murdered, Mr. Wimmer, just after you argued with her in the elevator', he specified quietly.
Jens Wimmer opened his mouth. 'W-W-what now? I got no business with that!'
'You went with Jasmin Rewe up to the 34 floor. What happened then?'
'She started to insult me. I gave her the finger, and as the elevator didn't come at once, I ran down the stairs and out through the back door. Had to calm down.'
'She went into the room alone?'
'Of course she did.'
Juri looked at Sam, turned aside and began chewing his lip. He looked furious.
Sam felt miserable because he had held back his knowledge and thoughts for so long, wondering how a German, a Frenchman or a Spaniard might apologize. Entschuldigung - Excusé-moi, Monsieur - Perdón, Señor. No German would add a straightforward address behind.
'Did you notice anything or anyone on the 34 floor?'
Jens Wimmer was thinking, pulled nervously his cap down, as he felt again an itch beneath it.
'None but a chambermaid with terribly ugly legs. Pretty hairy she was, poor thing.'
When Jens Wimmer had gone, the two cops remained seated. Sam pulled his chair opposite Juri. His partner avoided his look and seemed hardly able to control himself.
'Nice! What was that about? You knew from the very beginning that he wasn't our man. Why didn't you tell me? We're working together Sam. You aren't supposed to play Lone Wolf with me, nor to prove to the world that you wouldn't mess up another case like you did the last one …'
Sam dropped the mug and the coffee spilled over his shoes.
'Sorry, I didn't want to …'
'Never mind. You're right. It was uncool. You did a good job and now we know for sure that Jens Wimmer saw the murderer. Now we know that, in the first case as well, he was disguised as a chambermaid. For the moment I'm getting no idea how to add up these cases. Therefore, all information, however insignificant at first glance, may matter. Okay partner, I'm going to improve.' Sam softly bent over the table and slapped Juri's shoulder.
He was growing affectionate towards the young man. Juri was honest and spoke straightforwardly about what he didn't approve of. Still, Sam had not got to know more about him yet. All he knew was that Juri liked speed-dating, sucked cocoa, had a sister and was hunting every skirt available but rejected permanent relationships.
'Sam I don't know whether this is important, but in one week fro
m now, the largest medical conference in the world will take place in Berlin. Eleven thousand doctors from forty-one countries will be expected. What do you think?'
Sam raised his eyebrow and thought about that. He got up, went to the window and opened it as widely as possible. The last thirty minutes had made his head ache and he needed a gulp of fresh air.
Outside again was the whole range of grey hues. Depressing. He thought again of the sun and sea in Barcelona. 'Would you like to drink something?'
Juri nodded and Sam went out to the vending machine to take some time for clearing up his mind.
He pressed the button for a double espresso, waited until the small paper cup was filled and drank it in a gulp. The caffeine dose would reduce his headache. Then he pressed the button for cocoa.
Was it a coincidence that this medical conference would take place within a week? Was the murderer working his way towards that event? Eleven thousand doctors? How many of them would bring a partner? They would be spread all over the city.
'I suppose we shall get the next victim during the next few days. Somewhere in Europe. And what's worst, we can't help it.' He passed the cocoa to Juri.
'Maybe we should send a circular to the hotels to tell them they should warn their guests ', Juri suggested.
'Warn against what? Chambermaids?' Sam put the files of the third case on Juri's table and briefed him on the postmortem report.
'Not a doctor's wife, but a prostitute? A guinea pig?'
'No idea. But why then did he leave another slip? No, she must have been part of the plan.'
Juri put a foil with the lines beneath a projector and cast the image on a white wall.
'We'll see what they may tell us.'
Deserted and barren the limb shall survive,
though aged or young, though husband or wife.
For whom all this research, this limitless grief?
Donator, receiver, no time brings relief
The healthy were crippled, and hushed is their cry.
Then Death the Reliever, to free them, drew nigh.
Sam broke off after the third pass. 'I don't like poems and such stuff, but if I'm not mistaken, something is missing here.'
'Nice. Another set of lines?'
'The second couplet refers to research. But there's nothing about that before.'
'I don't get it.'
'He wrote, Doch wem gilt das Forschen, meaning: For whom all this research? But there is nothing said about research. See what I mean?'
'Sort of. You're going to tell me that there was another murder after the prostitute, Anna Galanis, and before Ms. Rewe?'
'That's what I think.'
Sam called Brenner to tell him about his suspicion, and then he phoned Peter Bauer in Munich. But none of them had found anything in the System.
Early in the evening, Juri dropped Sam at his hotel. But instead of going to his room, Sam went for a walk through the city center. He strolled along the river Alster, past the Atlantic Hotel and suddenly he found himself before the restaurant that belonged to Lina's mother.
He had not shown up there since the burial the year before and he felt ashamed about it. After all, this woman had lost her only child.
He just wanted to turn back as the door opened and Consuela stood before him. She had pressed her hands onto her hips, and Sam thought she would get angry with him, but she said gently, 'I hoped you would show up one day at this door Sam, and that I would also trap you then.'
She smiled and pulled him into the restaurant. 'There is something that I wanted to show you.'
She said that in such a mysterious voice that Sam's heart froze against his will. He took a seat on a chair and did not dare to ask. Her expression forebodes no good.
The restaurant had not changed; everything was still where he remembered it. Images of Don Quixote and colored flamenco trays, hand-made of wood with standard Spanish motives, adorned the walls. Above the bar were red and black sombrero cordobés and a few castanets that Lina had always used when dancing. Even the small Spanish flag in the corner of the bar hung miserably, full of dust, down from a rod. Without Lina's refreshing and lively spirit, the restaurant had lost its soul.
He turned to look at the table at which he had always sat, finding, astonished, that it was not there anymore. In its place was a big vase with dried flowers.
Consuela had disappeared into the back of the restaurant and now came back with a bundle.
Looking at Sam, she said, 'En esta mesa … the man had sat who was guilty of Lina's dying. I have thrown it out of the restaurant and set it aflame outside with my very own hands.'
She unwrapped a red mantón with embroidered flowers to produce a shabby level-arch file. For a few seconds she put her hands on it and closed her eyes. Then she opened it reverentially as if it was the Holy Bible.
The file was full of papers. She took out the two top ones and put them on the table. Tears left her eyes as she haltingly began to talk.
'Sam, you know … my Lina … had special … powers.' She looked straight into his eyes, seeking for confirmation.
Sam nodded with restraint.
'My little girl was absolutely her grandmother's image.' Consuela got a handkerchief from her apron and wiped her eyes. 'Antes de que Lina … before all that happened, she had sessions with customers.' She pushed the two papers across at him. 'Este aquí … presumably were made during the last one.'
Sam took both sheets and breathed deeply. It was as if Lina's power was still contained in them, at least he felt like it was. He could even smell the slight scent of honey that had always surrounded her. He examined the first sheet and looked at Consuela questioningly.
'Yo sé, looks like scribbling of a small child, but you must pay attention on los detalles.' She asked him silently to look more closely.
Sam swallowed and looked again. Lina had drawn a cross into each corner, and indeed, the longer he looked the more obvious the image became. At last he recognized that Lina had drawn her death scene with a few strokes, the site which he still saw clearly. The round arches of the windows, the torches on the walls, the autopsy table in the middle of the room that looked like a bed, even the canopic jars had been entered. But they were only recognizable to those who already knew what they were supposed to be. Lina had at that time certainly not known what she had drawn there.
'When …' Sam's voice broke off.
'About two weeks before she died. But I am more worried about this one.' She pointed at the second paper in Sam's hand.
A waiter approached the table and asked if Sam wanted to order something. Consuela told him to bring a carafe of sangría and a bottle of water.
In the center of the second sheet, Sam discovered his own name. It was surrounded by many a yes and no, lines that went nowhere and a trumpet-like structure. Just next to that was written, 'Death' and 'Devil's Breath'.
'Those lines that simply end in nothing are for the major part unanswered questions to the ghosts and …'
Sam did not listen anymore. He could not figure that out. Had Lina really anticipated his death? And what was this trumpet supposed to mean?
The sangría arrived and Consuela poured it into a glass that he drank in one gulp. At last she stopped chatting.
Sam regretted that he had not gone immediately back into his hotel room.
'Sam, did you hear at all what I said?'
'What? Yes, of course', he replied quickly, although he had not grasped a word any more. He looked at the clock and got up. 'I'm sorry, but I have another appointment. I have to go.'
He heard her saying that he was welcome any time as he stepped out onto the street and hurried away.
An icy wind, an east wind, as the Hamburgers said, was blowing; the kind that tears your skin off, but Sam did not feel it. He went to the hotel like he was remote controlled.
20.
Colombia Lea drove for an hour through the streets of the Barrio San Salvador, an area which decent persons were wise to avoid, but she had
no other choice. She had to speak to Daniela, Aleida's sister. Daniela was the only one who might know something about that 'dreadful Secret' that concerned her brother.
She drove past a group of youngsters who watched her and pointed fingers at her.
Gangs had the scepter here, and every day casualties happened in these districts which not even the police dared to enter. Strangers were allowed only on arrangement and by approval of the Patrón del Barrio, the boss of the district and on payment of an 'entry fee'.
And here she was driving without a clue in her small BMW and looking for this damned address. 51C 49-35 it read on the sheet. Now she passed road 51C for the fourth time, but there was no No. 49.
An older woman came out of an entrance.
Lea stopped, rolled the window halfway down and showed her the address. She was told that she was only a quadra away from her destination. She thanked her kindly and drove the steep road further uphill.
A scrawled 49 was found on a simple wooden board that was leaned against a fence. No wonder that she had overlooked it: She had not been looking for painted slats but for conventional blue street signs.
A glance along the street told her that the poorest of the barrio were living there. She parked her car a little further up, beside a yellow painted stone house and hoped that it would still be there later. Then she went straight into the lion's den, carrying a small suitcase into which she had packed all of Aleida's belongings.
The path was muddy, stony and slippery.
On the left were huts that had been assembled from old boards, on the right were small stone houses. And between the houses, little wooden stairs that led into the nowhereland of this district. Lea prayed that she would not have to go there.
Three youngsters came and looked at her distrustfully. She replied with a smile and asked the tallest one where to find Daniela Betancourt.
The boy scrutinized her from top to bottom. Obviously he liked what he saw because he gave a sign to follow him. A slight advantage in these districts was that everybody knew everybody. The other two followed closely behind her. Nobody said anything.
