by Graham Brack
‘I see Captain Němec has put his name to this.’
‘Yes, sir. It’s typical of the selfless generosity of the man.’
‘Indeed. A first class officer. We shall miss him. When does he retire?’
Slonský replied a little too quickly. ‘Thirtieth of April, sir.’ He added, as an afterthought, ‘I think.’
‘Well, I’m bound to say I’m rather surprised, Slonský. I had you marked down as a confirmed misogynist.’
‘No, lapsed Catholic, sir.’
‘It’s certainly a novel idea. And it meets several of the Director’s requirements for force development.’
That’s not a coincidence, thought Slonský, who had spent his evening reading the damn things over and over until he could recite them in his sleep.
Lukas had suddenly grown suspicious.
‘You don’t have any plans to get rid of Navrátil, do you?’
‘Certainly not, sir. The boy is a future star and I intend to mould him in my own image to further his prospects.’
Lukas clearly did not believe that modelling oneself on Slonský would further anyone’s career, but he let the point go. The old detective obviously meant well, and there was no denying that Slonský and Navrátil were becoming a very effective team.
‘I think,’ said Lukas, ‘that I shall add my name to this proposal and we shall see what our superiors make of it. If we’re successful, have you anyone in mind for the job?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Slonský, but then held his peace.
Navrátil was in the interview room, writing out some of the notes that he had scrawled.
‘How did it go, son?’ asked Slonský.
‘Šmíd and Dort are singing a sweet tune, but I can’t get anywhere with Jiskra,’ Navrátil replied.
‘Where’s Jiskra now?’
‘Next door, looking very smug. The other two won’t implicate him directly.’
‘Why not?’
‘I think they’re frightened of him.’
‘Are you frightened of him?’ Slonský’s concern was obvious.
‘No. He thinks he’s hard but he hasn’t met any of the real hard nuts.’
‘Thought not. I’ll be back in two minutes and then we’ll sort this out together.’
Slonský paid a quick visit to the washroom and rejoined Navrátil. They pushed the door open and greeted Jiskra, who was slouching in a chair looking exaggeratedly cool.
‘When do I get out?’ he asked.
‘Let’s say around three years from now and counting,’ said Slonský.
‘You can’t pin anything on me,’ said Jiskra. ‘I’m out of here.’
‘No,’ said Slonský, ‘you’re inside for three years heading towards four and if you give me grief I can make sure it’s nudging five.’
‘Yeah, well, I ain’t getting convicted so it don’t matter what the sentence might have been.’
Slonský growled.
‘If I had my way we’d add eighteen months for grievous bodily harm to the Czech language. However, I don’t get to decide on the length of your sentence.’
Jiskra grinned.
‘But,’ Slonský continued, ‘I can recommend where you serve it. Present for you.’
He suddenly tossed a small bar of wet soap he had picked up in the restroom against Jiskra’s knee. It dropped to the floor, and Jiskra leaned forward to pick it up.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘That,’ said Slonský, ‘is the last time you’ll dare to pick up a bar of soap you’ve dropped for the next four years.’
Jiskra’s gaze flicked nervously between them.
‘You’re joking, right?’
‘I’m joking, wrong,’ said Slonský. ‘Remember some of your cellmates won’t have seen a woman since bubble perms were in fashion and everyone was going round in shell suits.’
‘I’ll ask for solitary.’
‘You can’t ask for solitary!’ Slonský’s scornful voice boomed across the chamber. ‘They don’t do single occupancy rates at Pankrác. You’re damn lucky if you get a whole bed to yourself.’
‘Don’t matter. You can’t get me put away without evidence.’
Slonský grabbed the arms of the chair and glowered into Jiskra’s eyes.
‘Even if you could enjoy the showers in Pankrác, what do you think it’s going to do to Šmíd and Dort when I tell them about it in a few minutes? Do you think they’ll be as fearless as you are? Or do you think they’ll whimper like babes and sign anything that gets them a nice quiet prison in the country somewhere? Your call. You’ve got as long as it takes Navrátil and me to grab a quick coffee.’
Slonský steered Navrátil outside and they headed for the canteen.
‘Do you really think he’ll co-operate ten minutes from now?’ asked Navrátil.
‘I don’t know. We never will, because you’re not going back in ten minutes. We’ll leave him alone for a good long time to work up a sweat. By the time you go back he’ll have decided you’ve abandoned him to be the plaything of a bunch of hairy lifers and he’ll be so pleased to see you he’ll sign a blank confession. Now, where are we going for coffee?’
They left the building and were immediately accosted by Valentin, who looked anxious.
‘I was trying to think how I could get you to meet me,’ he admitted.
‘We were just going out for morning coffee,’ beamed Slonský. ‘Care to join us?’
‘Maybe something a bit stronger than coffee. There’s a café on the corner.’
‘I know,’ said Slonský. ‘Ghastly place, always full of policemen. Come on, this way.’
He strode across the road and soon had the three of them arranged around a small table with a coffee before each and a small brandy keeping Valentin’s cup company.
‘What’s the big story?’
‘I was hoping you’d have one for me. Remember my deadline? I don’t want to go back to the days when I had to work for my living, Slonský. I need that retainer. And when I tell you what I’ve got for you, I think you’ll agree I deserve a helping hand from the forces of law and order.’
Valentin savoured the first brandy of the day, oblivious to the tension he was generating in his audience.
‘Well?’ asked Slonský. ‘We haven’t come here to watch you drink.’
‘You asked me what I knew about Sammler, and I admitted I knew very little, but I thought my colleague in Vienna would know more. So I rang him.’
‘I know,’ said Slonský. ‘I paid for the call.’
‘And you got your money’s worth. The chap in Vienna had a strange, incomplete sort of story to tell, but it hinges on a photograph. Apologies for the quality — he faxed it to me — though truth to tell the original isn’t much better.’
Valentin offered a black and white photograph. It showed four young people apparently sharing a picnic. To the right, a woman was resting her head on a man’s shoulder. They were listening to a girl playing the guitar. In the foreground a young man had a notebook open and was writing something.
The woman cuddling the man had blonde hair reaching below her shoulders. He was the owner of a curly beard and a pair of rimless spectacles. Both of them wore a standard intellectual’s outfit of roll neck sweater and jeans. The guitarist was wearing something lighter in colour. Her face could not be seen clearly because the picture showed only a profile. The writer had thick, dark hair and was wearing a corduroy or velvet jacket and jeans.
‘Recognise him? That’s Theodor Sammler, according to our man in Vienna.’
‘Date of the picture?’
‘I’ll come to that, but probably around 1971 or 1972. Sammler had not long started as a student at Tübingen.’
Valentin took a further sip of his brandy, then noticed that it was empty. This discovery threw him into such confusion that he stopped talking until Slonský took command of the crisis and ordered another.
‘The reason for dating it 1971-2 is the woman on the rug with the bearded guy. She is Gudrun Enss
lin.’
The theatrical pause for a reaction produced absolutely nothing.
‘We’re obviously meant to know who Gudrun Ensslin is, but I don’t. And Navrátil won’t have any chance.’
‘Gudrun Ensslin was one of the leaders of the German Rote Armee Fraktion. You know, the Baader-Meinhof mob.’
‘Terrorists,’ said Slonský. ‘Sammler was hanging out with left-wing terrorists?’
‘So it seems. It can’t be before 1970 because he was still at home then, and in June 1972 Ensslin was arrested and never got out before she committed suicide in prison in 1977.’
‘Date?’ snapped Slonský.
‘18th October. You’ll remember that the Red Army Faction tried to engineer an exchange of prisoners by kidnapping an industrialist and then hijacking a Lufthansa airliner. When this failed to work, the leaders committed suicide in prison. Now, plainly the involvement of a leading establishment banker in terrorism would be big news, but there is absolutely nothing around to indicate that. He doesn’t seem to have been at the kidnapping or the hijacking, and none of those who continued the Red Army struggle name him or even seem to know of him.’
‘Interesting, but how does it help us?’
‘First, because the story doesn’t end there. It was whispered that Sammler was using daddy’s money to bankroll some of the RAF’s work. His father’s reaction was to prevent young Theodor having access to any bank accounts except his own little allowance, but also to decide that he must be removed from Germany to break links with his former friends and get the West German police off the Sammlers’ backs. Theodor had finished his doctorate by 1977 so he was sent off to Austria to work for a small bank there. He proved to be the cuckoo in the nest. Within five years he had more or less taken full control.’
‘I can imagine that,’ said Slonský. ‘He wouldn’t like being number two to anyone.’
‘That brings me to the second interesting fact our man had for us. You were speculating the other day as to why Sammler doesn’t go back to Germany to make his fortune on the bigger stage in Frankfurt. The simple answer is that he can’t. The German police never formally closed their enquiry into his links with terrorism and he is worried he could still be arrested.’
‘It’s a long time ago,’ said Slonský. ‘Who would remember all that now?’
Valentin drew a long, satisfying slurp and smiled broadly.
‘His father would.’
‘Sammler’s father is still alive?’
‘Alive and in the pink. He lives in a retirement home in the Black Forest. He is ninety-three but still in full possession of his marbles, they say. And he hasn’t spoken to Sammler since that day in 1977 when he put him on the train to Austria.’
Navrátil shook his head.
‘I can’t imagine your own dad not speaking to you for thirty years.’
Valentin ignored the comment.
‘I got on to our man in Frankfurt, who gave me a few more details. By the way, you owe me for the phone call. I’ve got old Sammler’s address in case you want a word. It seems that his prime concern was that his son was turning into a Communist fellow traveller, so the father’s idea was to take him away from his circle of bad influences, and give him a healthy pile of cash to make his fortune. Old Sammler reasoned that when the money started coming in, Theodor would be hooked on capitalism, and so it proved.’
‘So does this exonerate Sammler, or point the finger at him?’ asked Slonský.
Valentin appeared shocked at the mere suggestion that he might know the answer to this.
‘You’re the cops,’ he said. ‘You work it out.’
‘It’s a tenuous link in the chain of evidence,’ Slonský decided. ‘A photograph showing someone who might be Sammler having a picnic with someone who might be a famous terrorist without anything to suggest that Sammler was ever a fellow traveller.’
‘Except his dad’s belief,’ Navrátil added. ‘Presumably his dad had his reasons.’
Slonský finished his beer with one long glug.
‘Well, there’s only one way to find out,’ he told them. ‘We’ll have to ask him.’
‘You want to go where?’ gasped Lukas.
‘The Black Forest, sir. It’s in Germany,’ Slonský added helpfully.
‘I know where it is, Slonský. I also know how far away it is. It must be six hundred kilometres or more.’
‘I’ve done some research, sir. That’s the price of two flights, and that’s the corresponding rail fare. But then we have to get to the nursing home, which is a fairly long taxi ride. Whereas if we take a police car, I reckon the fuel will come to that figure at the bottom. So all in all we’ll be saving you around two thousand crowns by driving.’
‘Very considerate of you.’
‘So even with an overnight stay somewhere —’
‘No! Six hours each way doesn’t warrant a hotel.’
‘But with an interview between the journeys, sir, and a lot of ground to cover —’
Lukas scrawled across the paper.
‘Very well! One night, in a guest house, with a simple dinner and breakfast. And this had better be worthwhile, Slonský.’
‘All approved,’ Slonský announced. ‘Now, key tasks before we go. Navrátil, you’re in charge of the commissary.’
‘I thought that was a big bird that couldn’t fly.’
‘That’s a cassowary, Navrátil. A commissary is what you’re in charge of — a big picnic hamper with ample bread and sausages to see us through our epic journey. We’ll each take one small bag. I’ll go down to the motor pool and see what kind of car they’ll let us have. Anything I’ve forgotten?’
‘Do you speak German, sir?’
‘Only “Don’t shoot, I’m a friend”. You?’
‘Not a word, sir. And I’d guess that our chances of finding a German policeman who speaks Czech must be slim, so shouldn’t we take an interpreter with us?’
‘Good idea, Navrátil. Organise it. We can’t pay them, but there may be someone who’d like a free day trip to the Black Forest. And I suppose I’d better tell the German police what we’re up to, in case they discover we’re there.’
Navrátil decided the best prospect of finding a German speaker was to ask Sergeant Mucha, who seemed to know everything that went on in the building.
‘A fluent Kraut-speaker? I don’t think so.’ He scanned the duty roster in the hope that a possibility would leap out at him. ‘Isn’t Klinger a German name?’ he wondered.
Navrátil tapped on the door, and waited for the crisp ‘Come!’ from within.
‘Ah, Navrátil, isn’t it? Have you come to seek a transfer? We’re always on the lookout for likely lads in the fraud squad.’
‘Not just at the moment, sir. I’m trying to find a fluent German speaker and someone suggested that you might be one.’
‘Did “someone”? Well, you may tell Sergeant Mucha that I do indeed speak German tolerably well. What do you want one for?’
Navrátil summed up the discussion with Valentin.
‘Well, isn’t that fascinating? I can see why Slonský wants to speak to Sammler’s father. Although what this has to do with the murder he’s supposed to be investigating isn’t at all clear to me, unless it’s his contention that Sammler murdered someone in Germany before his father kicked him out.’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘When do you leave?’
‘Tomorrow morning, sir. Seven o’clock sharp.’
Klinger sprang to his feet and marched briskly to the door, holding it open for Navrátil.
‘I shall be ready at 06:50. And I hope that Slonský will have obtained a suitable vehicle instead of that battered insurance write-off he normally makes you drive.’
Chapter 21
Thursday dawned, and Navrátil and Klinger were waiting in the entry hall of the police headquarters when a slick white Volkswagen Passat glided to a halt on the yellow lines outside.
‘Will this do?’ asked Slonský throug
h the open window.
‘I’m impressed,’ said Klinger. ‘A 3.6-litre engine, I believe. How did you manage to get the use of this?’
‘By swapping the keys for those of the eight-year-old Škoda Octavia they were going to give us.’
‘You mean you haven’t booked this out?’ gasped Klinger.
‘Of course I have,’ said Slonský. ‘Old Dlouhý asked me to read out the registration, so I read this one to him, and he wrote out the paperwork. Then we both signed it. When he discovers it he’s hardly likely to tell everyone he’s so short-sighted he can’t actually do his job properly, is he?’
Klinger pursed his lips in a moue of disapproval.
‘That seems to me perilously close to taking advantage of the lame and halt,’ he said.
‘Fair enough,’ said Slonský. ‘Shall I take it back and get the Octavia?’
‘It’s a matter for your conscience rather than mine. But the seats are rather nice, aren’t they?’
‘Right, in you get. Klinger, do you want to sit in the front with me, or have the whole back seat to yourself?’
‘I’ll be happy to spread myself out in the back, if that’s agreeable to all,’ Klinger responded, and climbed in before anyone had time to object. Navrátil put the bags in the boot and walked back to address Slonský through the driver’s window.
‘Have you forgotten your bag, sir?’
Slonský reached into the footwell beneath him and held up a small snap-top freezer bag.
‘Pants, socks, toothbrush, razor. It’s only one night, Navrátil, not an Arctic expedition. Now, get in before some overzealous traffic cop books us.’
Klinger had brought a book. He was the sort of person who always had a book on the go, usually of the kind that he would describe as “improving”. In this particular case, he was reading an economics text by Hayek and not, as Slonský affected to believe, one by Hašek.
‘Though I don’t doubt for a minute that Hašek would have written an economics textbook if he had thought there was money to be made from it,’ Klinger commented acidly.
‘Ah, a true Czech,’ said Slonský. ‘Not one to let mere profound ignorance prevent him from expressing an opinion.’
