12 Drummers Drumming

by Diana Deverell

  Erika inhaled the last bit of smoke and dropped the butt to the ground. “You may not have to see Krüger. Hans could take him prisoner before he gets inside the museum.”

  “That would require a lot of luck.”

  “Not likely, I agree.” She tugged her kerchief forward to the edge of her hairline. Then she reached over and adjusted mine to match. She and I were dressed alike in the preunification garb still doing service among thrifty women in the former GDR. We were two sturdy fräuleins in thick wool stockings and heavy shoes cycling through the cultural sites of Saxony—unfashionable and uninteresting. “But surely you can’t be too concerned about this meeting. It’s all preliminaries, working out details and safeguards for Stefan’s release—the where-when-how. When I give the signal, Hans will move in on Krüger and we’ll be finished.”

  I leaned out over the wall to look upriver. Nothing unusual in that direction. I turned back to Erika. “The whole thing assumes Krüger will act rationally. That’s not a safe assumption.”

  “Let’s take it one step at a time,” she advised.

  “Right.” Foreboding flavored my tone.

  “Apparently you have an unhappy outcome in mind.”

  “You bet,” I said. “Van Hoof fails to capture Krüger. Instead, Krüger takes me in exchange for Stefan. He drags me along with him to Tripoli.”

  Her expression grew harder to read, as though she were evaluating me. “As long as you keep your distance from Krüger, he won’t have an opportunity to force you to do anything. Make sure you can reach your weapon.”

  My hand went to the small of my back, where the Browning was concealed beneath the knee-length coat. I brought my hand in front again and fingered the buttons. I’d wait until I was about to go indoors, then open up the coat. I didn’t want to expose my gun while bicycling through Meissen. I said to Erika, “Fine and good, so long as Krüger’s alone. Can we be sure he will be?”

  “He’ll be alone,” she said briskly. “He has too many enemies. He can’t reveal his plot to anyone new at this late date.”

  “That’s Holger’s logic, but do you—”

  She cut me off. “We can rely on Holger.”

  Holger’s reliability wasn’t my problem. Something else was bothering me, something I hadn’t worked out.

  Before I could explain, Erika said, “You trust me now, I think. Yet along the way you lost all faith in Stefan—a faith you now appear to have regained. But only at the expense of Holger Sorensen. Now your certainty of betrayal is focused on him.”

  Not betrayal. Something else. I said, “If you take a look at everything that’s gone wrong—”

  “Not relevant. Holger would not turn you over to Krüger.” She paused. “You know Goethe?”

  “You mean Faust?”

  “Not Goethe’s drama. His poetry.” She spoke slowly, reciting. “ ‘Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness, concerning all acts of initiative and creation.’ ” Her voice went back to normal. “We start out fighting these terrorists because of love. Love of country; love of mankind; as with Hans, love of a child—. But the struggle changes us, changes our motive. And unless we guard against it, we become like them, motivated only by hate.”

  “You’re saying that’s what’s happened to Holger—”

  “No.” Her fingers wrapped around my upper arms. “I’m saying that’s what’s happened to you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hatred calculates acceptable losses. Hatred looks always for others who hate, who betray, who deceive. We cannot allow that distrust. We must keep faith with one another.” Her hands were still on my arms, not moving.

  I felt as if she’d shaken me, rattled something loose inside. Something close to truth. I’d begun this thing in December, driven by my love for Stefan. But that love was buried under the other emotions I’d heaped on top of it. Envy at first. Distrust, yes. And a feverish desire to punish Krüger. But this wasn’t the moment to get into motives. “Dammit, Erika, I need to know how I’m going to protect myself in there—”

  “Stop! Stop calculating odds.” She pulled me closer. Our faces were inches apart and I saw the perspiration glistening on her upper lip, the perfect teeth in her mouth. “You must focus only on this task. Otherwise, at the instant when you most need to act, you will hesitate. And that hesitation will cost us everything.”

  “You’ll try to protect me. But Krüger—”

  “Runs on hate.” My cheek felt Erika’s lips, warm and pliant. She moved her head, and her breath was in my ear, a soft puff of warmth. “Love will win,” she whispered.

  We stood there, frozen, for at least fifteen seconds. Inside my chest I felt a soul-wrenching heart-soreness that left my eyes wet, my voice silent. I was overcome by a shapeless desire to cherish this moment. The top of Erika’s head grazed my jaw-line. When my mother put her arms around me after I was fully grown, her hair always brushed me in that same way. My body remembered that physical sensation, the loving embrace of someone smaller than I was. I had an aching sense that a precious gift had been bestowed on me.

  “Boldness,” Erika said slowly, quoting a piece of the poem I’d heard before. “ ‘Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.’ ” She released my arms and turned her back, reaching for her bike. “It’s time,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact.

  I was behind her as we pedaled away from the riverbank toward the porcelain factory. She stopped once, so suddenly that I bumped her rear tire. She waited for a rattling old-style Fiat to pass us in the other direction, making adjustments to her right pedal while she studied the driver. Satisfied that he was no threat, she got back on and continued. Even in the bulky clothes, she was graceful. After a minute, I found myself struggling to keep up with her. Or maybe I wasn’t as eager to get to our destination. Once I was out of Erika’s grip, away from her gaze, all my fears came back.

  My front wheel skittered across a pothole and I had to catch myself with my right foot to keep from tipping over. I got the bike moving again, pedaling harder to catch up. The air was thick with river mist, the droplets wetting my cheeks.

  I’d wanted to alert Erika to the pattern I’d seen, the misdirection that flowed from Holger Sorensen. She’d missed the point, thought I was accusing Holger of betrayal. And then she’d put herself in my corner in the most personal way.

  Or was she only doing the trainer’s job, saying whatever worked best to get the nervous fighter ready to face a stronger opponent?

  The street cut between two halves of the factory, the walls rising from the curb on each side of us to create an ocher canyon, banded far above eye level by rows of windows. Their many panes were glazed with a winter’s worth of grit. We parked our bikes in a rack where state-of-the-art Italian racing bikes mingled with balloon-tire two-wheelers that looked like they’d first seen use during World War II. I smelled clay dust and the chemical scent of paint. The place was recognizably industrial and I found myself listening for machinery, hydraulics— some factory noise. But I didn’t hear even the whir of a distant forklift. Only the slap of Erika’s leather soles on the damp cobblestones as she continued another fifty paces to the museum entrance. As we’d agreed, I stayed out of sight of the entry while she paid our admission.

  The silence made me nervous. Holger preferred to set clandestine meetings in public places where the participants could come and go unnoticed. I’d hoped to find at least one tour bus parked outside and a score of earnest porcelain lovers in the museum. I didn’t want another private chat with Krüger. But the street was deserted and even the factory workers seemed to be out to lunch.

  The holster lay snugly against my back. I touched my coat button. No, it was too soon to open up. I couldn’t see Erika. I ran a finger under the kerchief knot at the back of my neck. It was damp with nervous sweat. Why was it taking her so long? Was the vendor unwilling to sell her a pair of tickets? I listened, trying to hear her voice.

  Wrong focus. I
t cost me critical seconds. Behind me, an iron door scraped across the curbstones. At the instant that I identified the noise, a hand was over my mouth, a strong arm around my torso, and I was moving backward into a loading entrance—all before I could make a sound.

  The back of my head was jammed against the jaw of my captor. I smelled again his heavy aftershave. Overlaid now with the unwashed odor of a man who hours before had done sweaty labor and gotten a sexual thrill from it. I struggled, but the right arm banding my body only tightened. The gloved left hand over my mouth had the rough texture of cowhide. I bit down hard, but my teeth couldn’t cut through the leather. I tasted something vile, like spoiled meat.

  Inside, my captor spun us around so that he was between me and the doorway. He shoved me away from him, my face forward. My cheekbone crashed against the top riser of a set of gritty stairs. The metal door scraped shut again behind me, throwing the hallway into darkness. Splinters stabbed my fingers as I scrabbled, trying to pull myself up the stairs. I got my feet under me, but my leather soles were slick from the dampness outside. My right shoe slipped off the edge of the stair. I went with the momentum, swinging my leg back, trying to strike the man’s groin.

  He grabbed my shoe and jerked.

  My forehead banged against the top two stairs. My knees thudded against the bottom tread. Kneeling, I fumbled at my coat buttons, trying to get to my gun.

  “Hands above your head.” Reinhardt Krüger’s voice sounded bored. I felt pressure between my shoulder blades. Big and heavy. Something large-caliber.

  “Where have you concealed your weapon?” he asked.

  I twisted my neck to look at him, but I saw only a silhouette against the strip of light outlining the exit door. “I don’t—”

  “I will search you.” He must have flexed his left hand. I heard a sound like pumice on skin, the gloved fingers sliding against one another.

  The taste of the glove burned in my mouth. I thought of it touching my body and shuddered. “Holstered at the back,” I said.

  He motioned me to stand. “Unbuckle the belt.”

  If I could get my body between him and the gun, I might be able to find a way to take a shot at him. My hands went to my coat buttons as I moved to face him.

  “Don’t turn. And don’t open your coat. Lift it so that I can see the gun. And then unbuckle the belt.”

  I did as he said. Before the holster touched the floor, he caught it with his left hand. He pulled the Browning free and shoved it into his waistband. “Go up the steps,” he said. “I have something to show you.”

  At the top of the stairs was a door-lined hallway. He shoved me through the first opening on my right. I was in a rectangular room. The only light came from the multipaned windows. I looked out on the street where I’d been standing moments before. From here, Krüger had watched me and Erika, waiting for that moment when he could take me by surprise.

  Centered in front of the windows was a worktable holding a potter’s wheel powdered with white clay dust. Empty now, but it was clearly set up for demonstration purposes rather than for production. The space in front of the worktable was filled by a set of risers like those used by choral groups. At the far end was another door. The Meissen people probably used this room and others along the hallway for visiting tour groups. They could show, step by step, how they created highly polished porcelain. Very low-tech, very efficient, very East German.

  I heard the tick-tick-tick of metal on metal, a key in a padlock. Metal chain links jingled together. I turned toward the sound.

  The heavy glove now clutched a large steel ring attached to a length of chain. Krüger yanked on it, pulling upright a figure who’d been locked into a crouching position in the shadowy corner past the door. Krüger jerked to bring the figure closer.

  “So,” he said, “what is my little brother’s life worth to you?”

  26

  Stefan!

  Not possible. Removing Stefan from confinement before we’d arranged the exchange was far too risky for Krüger. Or so Holger had argued. Wrong again.

  Stefan beside me, close enough to touch. Krüger had made the one move for which I had no countermove.

  My eyes jittered around the room. Suddenly, it was impossible to make myself look at Stefan. To see how much damage Krüger had done to him.

  But I had to know how bad it was.

  I managed to focus on the feet. Shackled at the ankles. The cross chain linked by a yard of vertical chain to another piece binding the wrists. The shortness of the vertical chain forced him to hunch his back and the ankle shackles shortened his gait, making Stefan stand like my arthritic father.

  My eyes moved upward, to his hands. The tapering fingers were flaccid, powerless, the nail missing from the right thumb. Skin on the wrists on each side of the cuffs was raw. Shirtsleeve stained, torn half off at the shoulder seam. The skin on his jaw was swollen, reddish purple. His cheekbones disappeared into the puffy flesh. And his nose was bent crooked by a break. I cataloged each wound as if I were a scientist. No place now for feeling. Keep it away. Keep it distant. Get on with this.

  I felt a puff of cold air against the back of my neck. A door to the outside had opened somewhere behind me. Erika? Van Hoof? If either of them was coming to help me, I couldn’t let Krüger hear. Quickly, I said, “Stefan’s almost dead. Not worth much to me in this condition.”

  “Disoriented, is all,” Krüger replied. “Rather like your father.” He shook his head. “Given your unfortunate genetic heritage, it was wise of you not to breed.”

  “Too bad your mother didn’t make the same choice,” I said.

  He laughed, the sound hollow in the near-empty room. “I do look forward to the opportunity to enjoy more of your wit,” he said. “I will leave my poor little brother for his friends to claim. And you will come with me.”

  “And if I won’t?”

  “We both know you’re coming.” His voice was thicker now, full of the pleasure of conquest, a word that has no meaning unless there is someone to be subjugated.

  I said, “You roughed him up for my benefit, didn’t you?”

  Krüger laughed again. “I’ve studied you. I know how your mind works. Not by deduction, like your sanctimonious Danish friend thinks. But inductively, from the specific to the general. You can extrapolate from his current appearance how he will look after a sojourn among those who have vowed to punish him for his crimes.”

  Vowed? The unexpected word set off a ping somewhere in the back of my mind, like a phone jolted by electrical activity up the line. But the sound of it was pushed aside as I struggled not to imagine what would happen to Stefan if he ended up in Libya.

  I couldn’t take my eyes from the battered face. Each long eyelash lay as if etched atop the swollen flesh. My right hand went out and my index finger gently brushed the bruise along his cheekbone. In response, his eyelids slowly rose. My left hand formed a fist as I steeled myself, expecting to see in those eyes the same incomprehension I’d seen in my father’s.

  The awareness in his glance was so vivid, it seemed to light the room. His eyes bored into mine for a microsecond. Then his eyelids closed and reopened in a deliberate blink to show me again the clear hazel flecked with gold.

  I sank down onto the lowest step. I bent over, my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands. “All right,” I told Krüger, letting my voice crack. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Of course you will,” Krüger said, relaxing the tension on the chain.

  Stefan sat beside me. I slid my arm behind his neck. “Let me say good-bye.” I pressed my cheek against his and spoke loud enough for Krüger to hear. “Moj skarbie.” My treasure.

  “Sztuczka,” Stefan breathed in reply. The harsh syllables sounded like nonsense. Possibly a slurred endearment. Not identifiable as communication unless you knew an obscure Polish word for “trick.”

  A chill filled the pit of my stomach. Krüger wasn’t going to trade Stefan for me—the outcome I’d accused Holger of wanting. We’d both
be going to Tripoli. This was a charade to pacify me long enough to get out of Meissen and headed south. I murmured, “Rozumiem.” The rumble of Polish that means “I understand.”

  “No conversation,” Krüger ordered. He pointed the pistol at my sternum. “Move away from him.”

  “Please,” I said in a pitiful voice. “A few more seconds.” I maneuvered Stefan’s head against my chest, pushed my face against his matted hair. I felt the warmth of his scalp and breathed in his scent. “Tak,” I whispered. Polish for “yes.” Danish for “thank you.” I used the word in bed, a coded signal my lover understood. It fit now, too. Swift, simultaneous, praise-the-Lord-type action was what we needed now.

  Steel prodded my ear. “Out of the way,” Krüger demanded.

  I relaxed my embrace and let Stefan’s head slump forward onto his knees. Krüger moved the pistol so that it no longer touched me. I stood and took a step to my left.

  Krüger kept the gun in his right hand, pointed at me. The chain in his left hand was connected to the one binding Stefan’s wrists. Krüger tugged on his end, trying to pull Stefan to his feet so he could drag him back into the corner, rechain him to the radiator.

  But Stefan toppled forward instead, onto his knees. He screamed, a shriek without artifice, one forced out by real pain. I started toward him.

  “Don’t move.” Krüger still had the gun pointed in my direction.

  I stopped, but my nerve ends were tingling. I was on the balls of my feet, ready.

  Krüger extended his left arm, as though to grab the handcuff chain, the better to drag Stefan’s inert form the last few feet.

  With a clatter of chain, Stefan exploded upward. His head slammed into Krüger’s midsection. The German grunted as the air rushed from his lungs. He lunged backward into the worktable. The potter’s wheel crashed to the floor, sending up a white whirlwind of dust and the schoolroom odor of modeling clay.

  Krüger’s pistol skittered across the floor toward me. I jumped forward and grabbed it.

  But Krüger was quick. Standing again. Stefan in front of him, blocking my shot. Stefan’s head tipped back, eyes shut, the length of chain a line of silver ovals across his Adam’s apple. The ringed end was still in Krüger’s gloved left hand. But now he held the other end with his right.