Shout in the Dark

by Christopher Wright

  Chapter 31

  Via Nazionale

  AT SEVEN THE next morning, Karl finished his frantic packing in the small hotel bedroom. The pictures on the early morning television news had been devastating. No wonder Herr Kessel hadn't come back last night. He realized that if he'd been watching the news yesterday evening, instead of spending the time with an older woman in her hotel room, he could have been well on his way back to Germany by now. But the woman he'd met in the bar had been good and obviously appreciated fit young men.

  Frantically he zipped Otto's case shut. He must clear every trace of occupation from the three rooms. Paying the bill could be a problem, but hopefully the desk clerk would not be around this early to ask for payment. The sooner he was out of the place the sooner he could get home, away from the killers of Herr Kessel and Otto. His turn might be next.

  "Goodbye, Rome!" He held Otto's case in one hand, his own in the other. Herr Kessel's case was already in the boot of the little Fiat. Damn! A young receptionist had come on duty.

  "Off so early, signore? How do you wish to pay?"

  Karl opened his hands in a helpless gesture, hoping to indicate that he was unable to speak Italian. The young clerk, probably used to foreigners staying at the hotel, merely pointed to the total on the bill. The man was not one of the daytime staff, so he was unlikely to know any of the guests by name. Without a word, Karl slapped Herr Kessel's credit card on the high wooden counter littered with sightseeing leaflets.

  "Manfred Kessel?" The clerk stared at the card. "I thought..." He stopped, as though realizing the young German would not understand. Karl knew that since the booking had been made jointly, one of them was in the register as Kessel. Payment was payment, and Karl guessed that this rundown hotel needed money, not trouble.

  "Uno momento." The bill was large. He smiled reassuringly at the large guest and went into the office, presumably to check the card by telephone. Discreetly, of course.

  Karl had been taught not only to appear relaxed but to feel relaxed deep down. The TV news just now had been a real shocker, in spite of being all in Italian. The pictures of the dead men were enough to tell him he was now on his own. First Otto burned to death at Monte Sisto, and now Herr Kessel killed in the Flavian Amphitheatre by a knife.

  "Please enter your PIN, signore."

  He'd seen Herr Kessel's entering the PIN often enough, and tapped it in confidently. He could forge the signature as well if he had to. The telephone check must have proved satisfactory, which meant the card was still creditworthy. Well, he knew it would be: there was no reason for it to have been cancelled. He reckoned he'd been pretty smart the other evening at the Colosseum, while hurrying back with his slashed arm wrapped in his shirt, to have extracted the card and the list of names and phone numbers from Herr Kessel's wallet.

  "Thank you, Signor Kessel. Bon giorno."

  He couldn't help smiling as he walked slowly out to the rental car. It wouldn't do to be seen leaving in a hurry. He laughed as he climbed into the driving seat of the Fiat, feeling for the piece of plastic in his shirt pocket. If Herr Kessel was alive he would still be waiting in vain for the replacement card to arrive from Germany.

  He drove slowly down the Via Nazionale. The rental office where he and Herr Kessel had collected the Fiat should be somewhere down here on the right.

  It was a different woman on duty. "I want to extend the rental on the car. Two days. Two? Due? Si?" He felt pleased with his grasp of the language. He pointed to the laden Fiat in the street and placed the card on the table. A visual clue might help as he made a pretence of writing with his finger, looking up at the attractive girl in the company uniform.

  The card went through the till check without a hitch, and the girl beamed the company smile as she presented him with a rental agreement revised for a further two days.

  Reaching the little Fiat he punched his fists in the air in elation. The car was now legally his, so the carabinieri would not be looking for it. The Fiat would be safe all the way to Germany. But Herr Kessel had spoken of an enemy in Rome. Rome could be full of enemies. Unfortunately, so could Germany. Associating with the old Jew had been bad enough. To be part of a seriously failed mission was a disaster. Perhaps he would do well not to hurry back to the Homeland.

  He decided to get fuel at the first opportunity, then leave Rome on the Autostrada del Sole, going north. With a full tank he could drive this toy for the whole morning without stopping. Once on the autostrada there was a risk, albeit a small one, of being followed -- and a chase was not the time for fuel to be running low.

  While the attendant filled the tank with sensa pombino he went to the kiosk to pay with Herr Kessel's card. He saw a rack of daily papers on sale and one in particular caught his attention. It had a picture of Herr Kessel on the front page, obviously copied from the photograph the man always carried in his pocket, complete with the crease mark across his neck and shirt.

  Dropping the paper on the counter he indicated to the cashier that he wanted it added to the fuel bill. Never before had he been allowed unlimited spending. But soon he would have to report that the card had been stolen -- along with Herr Kessel's private papers.

  The attendant put the card in the holder and ran the roller over it. He handed the copy to Karl to sign.

  "Danke." He signed with Herr Kessel's signature and waited for the receipt. This authority was something to be savored. It could not last for long, or his purchases would lead all the way back to the Fatherland like footprints in the sand.

  Herr Kessel had come to Italy to find fame and glory, boasting that the bronze relic would give him power. Not the head blown up at the television studio. Herr Kessel had explained that one was a modern head, and it was annoying to think that the old Narr had let him risk his life for it. Somewhere out there was the genuine relic. It had been so irresistible that Herr Kessel had rushed off to the Colosseum to look for it -- and ended up with a knife in his Bauch.

  The newspaper was all in Italian, and beyond his grasp of the handful of words gleaned over the past few days. Whatever the report said it took a lot of space to say it. He showed a finger to the impatient driver behind him at the pump and stayed put. Testa might or might not be Head, but Eusebius had to be Eusebius.

  He flung the paper onto the back seat and let the clutch in, the high revs making the tires screech as the tiny Fiat shot forward. The attendant refueling an old Lancia at the head of the line had to jump back as he shouted abuse, but Karl was beyond caring. He need not go back to Germany yet.

  Power.

  Not the power of the plastic card. If he could get the relic he would no longer be looked down on as a Düsseldorf thug, he would surely be given a position of command. He swung the car round in the street, narrowly missing a young stud showing his girlfriend just how rapidly his silly yellow sports car could accelerate. Stupid driver.

  With the relic he would have power all right. Everyone in Achtzehn Deutschland Reinigung would thank him if he could return to Germany with the head of Jesus Christ on the back seat. He could throw Herr Kessel's credit card away. He could throw Herr Kessel's old suitcase away at the same time.

  The ADR would be so grateful they would overlook his association with Herr Kessel. They might even offer him a position marching at the front at rallies. The Parteitage -- torchlit rallies. Karl felt excitement in his chest, but recognized that he was getting carried away. If he wasn't careful he would be a joke figure like Herr Kessel. That man had been nothing but a Dummkopf. He had even died a Dummkopf. It would take real style to get to a position of trust in the ADR.

  The Priester Sartini probably knew where to find the relic, and fortunately he was still alive. He only had to find Sartini and make him tell. The man would be a pushover.

  "My father had visions!"

  The electrifying thought came suddenly. Here he was, driving around in the city like a headless chicken, and all the time some outside force seemed to be controlling his mind.

  He had never r
eally thought much about his father's death in hospital. The nurses kept his father drugged. Sedated, they called it. Herr Kessel had visited occasionally, pushing himself on the family, eager to hear the foolish ramblings. It was all so embarrassing at the time.

  Papa knew that Achtzehn Deutschland Reinigung would soon become powerful. Papa always believed the two Germanys would be united -- years before it happened. He lived long enough to watch the Wall come down. The future of that unity had been part of the visions. Die Heimat -- the Homeland -- the envy of the world. And Papa had seen his son as the new leader. He had pointed feebly at him in the hospital to say that he was... What? The New Savior. And that idiot Herr Kessel thought the words were meant for him!

  He wanted the comfort of a sympathetic voice. He felt in his pocket for Herr Kessel's list of telephone numbers. Many of them belonged to covert members of the ADR and could never be used. They would take extreme action to recover this list and keep their names secret.

  In a vacant parking slot he flicked through the small notebook.

  Some of the members' names were familiar, but others had been written in unrecognizable abbreviations. The trick would be knowing which names were safe to contact for support, and which had to be avoided. The name Phönix had a number with a dialing code for England. Herr Kessel had mentioned Phönix, talking about him with a certain amount of anxiety. Herr Kessel once said something about a Phönix being a dead bird that built its nest in a fireplace. He shrugged. It was an odd name for a leader.

  He jumped from the car and ran across the street to the telephone. He could try giving Phönix a call. Perhaps the man would be able to find out where Sartini went in the daytime.

  "I want to speak to Phönix."

  There was a hesitation at the far end of the line. "Who are you?" The voice sounded restrained.

  "Karl Bretz. I'm a friend of Herr Manfred Kessel -- but he's dead." He waited. Hearing no response he decided to continue. "I found a list of phone numbers and I thought Phönix might be able to help."

  "There is nobody called Phönix here. We already know that Herr Kessel is dead. Were you with him in Rome?"

  It felt scary being in touch with the top of such a powerful organization. "Let me speak to Phönix."

  "That's impossible. Tell me where you are."

  "A call box."

  "A public call box? What country are you in?"

  "I... I..."

  "Who gave you this number, Herr Bretz?"

  He'd made a mistake in trying to contact anyone in this book. "It doesn't matter."

  "Stay by the phone, Bretz!" The man spoke unexpectedly sharply. "I'll get back to you. Give me your number."

  He replaced the receiver. He could feel his heart beating wildly as he looked round to see if anyone was watching. Surely no one could trace an international call this quickly. He had to get away and find Sartini, and make him talk. He would wait within sight of Sartini's apartment and hope that the old troll hadn't recovered yet.