Crossfire

by Niki Savage

  Stefan turned from the window, feeling abandoned. The desolation threatened to overwhelm him, and for the next hour, he prowled around the apartment, at odds with himself. Eventually he went back to his room and dressed in a comfortable pair of blue jeans. He pulled on his boots, and selected a light blue shirt to round off the outfit.

  He wasn’t planning to go anywhere, but getting dressed made him feel like he was on the mend. The only part of the apartment he hadn’t seen yet was the garage, and he decided to satisfy his curiosity.

  A minute later the doors of the elevator opened onto the garage. He let out a low whistle as he saw a black Lamborghini Diablo, a black Aston Martin and a black 1995 Chevrolet G20 Sports Van with a racing conversion. Red trim, lowered suspension, running lights, a hefty bull bar and an exhaust system that did justice to the V8 engine, left no doubt that this vehicle had been designed for fun.

  A quick check through the window of the Diablo revealed that the interior was unstained. Next, he went to the Aston Martin, and checked the interior. It was immaculate, and the leather seats looked brand-new. Stefan was puzzled. He knew he had lost a lot of blood, yet could find no trace of it. Even the van was spotless.

  Marcelle must have had the seats and carpets replaced of whichever car he had stained with his blood. Where had she had it done? Would his enemies think of looking out for clues like that? His hand drifted to where he had shoved his gun into the back of his jeans. The cold metal of the weapon reassured him, and he decided to ask Marcelle about the bloodstains upon her return.

  ~ . ~

  After lunch, he selected a movie from the extensive collection, and settled down to watch. The story and the plot were good, but he found it impossible to concentrate. His thoughts kept wandering to Marcelle’s slim figure and sad gray eyes, as he remembered the feel of her soft body against his own.

  When the movie ended, he resumed his prowling. Before long, he found himself in the wood-paneled study, and surveyed his surroundings with interest. Shelves crammed with books took up one wall, whilst the other walls contained many framed photos of Marcelle and Jean-Michel together. Various large photos portrayed Jean-Michel alone, clad in racing overalls, posing with his car.

  Stefan got the feeling of a shrine as he studied the photos. He recognized the Marcelle of old, with shining eyes and a happy smile. Her love for Jean-Michel shone in her eyes when the camera found her looking at her dark-haired husband.

  There was an unforgettable picture, showing a much younger Marcelle standing astride her racing bike, wearing the world championship jersey, a gold medal hanging from a ribbon around her neck. Jean-Michel stood at her side, a protective arm encircling her slim waist, smiling at his wife with affectionate pride. She returned his smile, her face turned up to his, as if he were the sun at the centre of her universe.

  The picture symbolized the marriage that had been theirs. The young couple had been the sole inhabitants of their world, a world where the young widow now wandered alone, calling out for her dead mate. That was the tragedy of the whole situation.

  Stefan sank into the high-backed leather chair behind the heavy oak desk. Another photo of Jean-Michel stood on the corner of the desk, and he reached for it. As the light caught the smooth surface of the portrait, he noticed fingerprints all over the glass. Marcelle obviously handled the photo a lot. No doubt, she spent many hours in the study.

  A letter lay open on the desk, and he picked it up. Due to the nature of his job, he didn’t feel any guilt at sorting through other people’s personal effects.

  He checked the last page and saw it was from her mother and father. However, the letter was in French, and he knew she wasn’t French. When he checked the return address, he saw that the letter had come from Remi and Christina Deschamps, Jean-Michel’s parents, in the south of France. Curious, he read the letter. The tone was friendly, but he could detect concern between the lines. He put the letter down as he had found it.

  It was close to three, so Marcelle should be home any minute. He went to the living room window and scanned what he could see of the road. Things were quiet. All he saw were two expensive German cars that entered the complex separately, and drove past to two of the other units.

  At a quarter past three, he became concerned. All the worries of that morning came back to haunt him as he stared out of the window. He felt immense relief when he spotted her coming up the road just before three thirty.

  He waited impatiently as she passed through the gates and stopped to speak to the guards. They handed her some object, which she put in her pocket. Then she rode towards the apartment, entering through the garage.

  The elevator doors opened to reveal an exhausted Marcelle, her face and clothes showing the salty stains of dried perspiration, and her disheveled hair hanging over the multicolored cycling sunglasses she wore. She saw him standing at the window, and managed a tired smile. Wordlessly she dropped into the nearest chair and pulled her glasses from her face.

  Not dissuaded, he sat on the couch. “So how was it, did you beat Richard?” He was eager to fit into her life.

  She looked up at him with a long-distance stare that seemed to look past him. “Yeah,” she answered, “but it was a rough ride. I guess the lack of sleep caught up with me. It came down to a bunch sprint, which I took by a hair’s breadth, but Richard insists he got it, so we’ve called it even.” She dropped her face into her hands. “Man, it was war out there today. I don’t know how I made it home after I left the guys. I’m so trashed.” She leaned back in the chair, and closed her eyes.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  She opened her eyes. “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day,” she said with a grateful smile.

  “Coming right up, don’t move.”

  “I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to,” she said with a groan.

  He was back ten minutes later with a tray of tea and biscuits. She had stretched full length on the couch, and he had to shake her shoulder to wake her from her slumber.

  She sat up to accept the mug of tea he held out to her, and took a sip. “Who taught you to make such fantastic tea? You have a real talent for it.”

  He shrugged, sitting next to her. “My mother, I guess.”

  “Well, God bless her. I believe that without tea nothing else works.”

  He didn’t answer, smiling indulgently at her.

  She caught his look. “Sorry, sometimes I just get carried away.”

  He offered her the plate of biscuits. “Don’t be sorry, I’m a teapot too.”

  “Well, we have that in common,” she said, taking a biscuit.

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  After Marcelle had finished her tea, she pushed herself to her feet with an effort. She reached into the back pocket of her cycling jersey and drew out what looked like a plastic credit card.

  “I’ve told the guards at the gate that you’re my stepbrother, Stefan Burger from South Africa, and that you’ll be staying with me for a few weeks. They’ve made an ID card for you, but without a photo. So you can come and go as you please, even when I’m not here. The password that goes with the card is Paradox.” She grimaced. “Their choice, not mine. I think they’re into the P’s this month.”

  She handed him the I.D. card, and he took it from her, noticing the play of light on the luminous hologram in one corner.

  “Burger?”

  “My mother’s married name. You are my brother from my stepfather’s first marriage. That will account for the fact that you’re older than I am. My own father is French, not South African. It’s a long story.”

  He suppressed his curiosity, resolving to ask her more about her past later. He put the card in his pocket. “Thanks, this is thoughtful of you, but until I’ve recovered I won’t leave the complex.”

  “I agree, but now you can go into the fresh air, instead of being trapped in here all day.” She got to her feet. “As much as I’m enjoying your company, I need to get out of these sweaty clothes. I think
I’ll take a shower. I’ll probably drown in the bath.”

  With a laugh, she disappeared down the passage. Stefan smiled. He appreciated her dry sense of humor. In fact, he liked everything about her, especially those strange gray eyes, and the arrogant swing of her pert bottom as she walked. He knew he should stop things before he got in too deep. He had no right to drag his rescuer into the shadowy world in which he moved.

  Even so, he was powerless to halt his feelings. He was hopelessly in love with Marcelle. What could he offer her? She had already been involved with one man in a high-risk profession. His profession was even more dangerous, and he couldn’t guarantee he would come back to her every time. Did he have any right to inflict that kind of pain on her?

  He dismissed his thoughts with a shake of his head. He shouldn’t allow his imagination to run away with him. She had given no indication that she regarded him as anything other than a friend. She was kind to him, and last night had turned to him in a moment of need.

  He knew that until she let go of Jean-Michel, he wouldn’t have a chance with her. Perhaps it was better that way, he thought. If she responded in any way to his advances, he wouldn’t walk away, and they would be on course for probable disaster.

  * * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  They had supper at around eight o’clock, and Stefan complimented Marcelle on the tasty lasagna she had made. Later, in front of the television, he decided this was as good a time as any to touch on the subject they had discussed the previous night.

  “Marcelle, do you remember I said last night that I would tell you more about myself?”

  She turned serious eyes on him. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me.”

  “I know, but I need you to understand. I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of monster.” Never before had he cared what anyone, man or woman, thought about him or his activities. Yet now, it was important to him that she understood and didn’t condemn him. Perhaps he felt the need to redeem himself, in case she found out later that... He brutally halted that train of thought, trying to convince himself that he had no ulterior motive.

  She seemed to sense his mood, and used the remote to switch off the television. “I don’t think you’re a monster,” she said, turning to face him. “But if you want to tell me about yourself, I’m listening.”

  He searched her eyes, and detecting real interest, said, “I was born thirty years ago in West Germany, Stefan Nikolai Ziegler. The Nikolai comes from my grandfather, an East German scientist who defected to West Germany in his youth. His son, my father, followed his example, and became a nuclear physicist, working at the Grohnde nuclear power plant in the Hamelin-Pyrmont district. We lived in the village of Grohnde, like all the families whose parents worked at the plant. My mother was a housewife, at home for my younger sister and me. I showed potential early in life, and joined an accelerated learning program, run by the plant’s physicists in their spare time. My parents hoped I would emulate my father. Perhaps I might have, but that decision was taken from me at the age of twelve.”

  “Why, what happened?” Marcelle leaned forward, already hooked.

  “In 1984 we travelled by train to Hanover, to attend the Oktoberfest, which we had been attending every year since I was six. When we arrived in Hanover, we went out to the taxi rank to get transport to our hotel. I realized I had left my jacket on the train, and ran back to get it. Luckily, it was still there, but as I ran back towards my family, there was a tremendous explosion that ripped me off my feet, and smashed me against one of the stone pillars in the station. I lost consciousness, and woke up in hospital with broken ribs and a head injury.”

  “How awful. You could have been dead.”

  “Yes, if not for that jacket. When I asked the nurses at the hospital about my family, nobody would give me any information, and I feared the worst. The police asked if I had a phone number for any next of kin. I told them my mother’s only sister lived in Bonn with her husband and two kids, and gave them the phone number. The next day my aunt arrived, and I only had to see her face to know the news was bad. The explosion which had injured me had been a powerful car bomb.”

  Marcelle could detect bitterness in his voice as he rose and crossed to the window. He stared out at the dusky landscape for long moments before turning to face her again. “The bomb had killed twenty-six people, and maimed many more. My mother, my father and my seven-year-old sister were among the dead. My aunt and I had to give DNA samples to the authorities to identify the body parts they had recovered after the explosion. They had found my little sister’s hand, my father’s torso and part of my mother’s right arm. A terrorist organization, the Red Army Faction, phoned in and claimed responsibility. Apparently the target had been a government official, who had also been killed in the blast.”

  “Dear God, you were only twelve, a child. How did you manage?”

  Stefan grimaced, and came back to sit beside her on the couch. “I was shattered. In one fell swoop, that bomb had taken away everything I had held dear. My aunt went home with me to collect my possessions and pack up the house. Two months later, when the government released the remains, we held a funeral with just one casket, one grave, but three names on the gravestone.”

  Marcelle reached out to touch his forearm, distressed by the pain she saw in his eyes.

  Stefan reached out to cover her hand with his own as he continued. “My aunt and her family were the only relatives I had, and I went to live with them, as specified in my parents will. At least I wasn’t left destitute. Through his employer, my dad had a huge life policy to care for us in case something happened to him. The money, equivalent to about two million dollars, remained in trust for me until I turned twenty-one. My foster parents received a monthly amount to cover my living expenses and pocket money.

  “I got on fine with my new family, and my aunt, who was so much like my mother, played a huge part in my recovery. Her sons were twins, and two years older than I was. Public school was a difficult adjustment for me. I was used to a small town, and homeschooling. I had to write some tests so they could figure out where I fit in, and in the end, they put me in the same grade as my two cousins. The other kids gave me a hard time at school. I was a few years younger than my classmates were, and with blond hair, a delicate build, a pretty face...well, I’m sure you can guess what happened.”

  “Children can be so cruel sometimes,” Marcelle said. “I’ve been there myself.”

  “Well, my cousins came to my rescue. They were identical twins, with copper red hair, Karl and Kris Dietzen. They had been a target from an early age because of their hair color, and Karl was quick to use his fists. He protected me at first, and taught me how to fight. Soon we were a formidable team, and people learnt to watch what they said around us. Kris was content to patch up any damage we might have suffered, rather than throw punches himself.”

  “I have to meet these two cousins of yours,” Marcelle said with a smile, “they sound intriguing.”

  “They are my best friends, even today. Anyway, when we graduated from high school, I was fifteen, and they were seventeen. Of course, they had to go to the army for nine months for their compulsory military service. At fifteen, I was too young, so I was alone again. I didn’t want to waste two years, so I enrolled at the University of Bonn and did a three-year degree in two years.”

  “You’re such a showoff.” She punched him playfully on the arm. “What did you study?”

  He laughed at her reaction. “Languages. English and French, and a few social subjects. It was all just for show, because I had already decided not to pursue an academic career. My ambition was to join the Grenzschutzgruppe-9, an anti-terrorist unit attached to the Federal Border Police. I had not forgotten the pain and loss of my youth, and I wanted to dedicate my life to wiping out as many terrorists as I could. The GSG-9 only accepted volunteers from the Bundesgrenzschutz, so I planned to do my nine months in the army and then apply to join the Federal Border Police. From there I could
volunteer for the GSG-9. Their admission process was strict, and they looked for a high level of intelligence in their operatives, because the first three months of the course focused on academic work. I decided that for once my high IQ and photographic memory might come in handy.”

  “Surely, they must be good for something,” she said dryly, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

  “Anyway,” Stefan continued, smiling in response, “to make a long story short, that’s exactly how it all worked out, and by the age of nineteen I was a fully fledged member of GSG-9. This was an achievement at such a young age, because the training was brutal, and only twenty percent of candidates qualify as operatives. I excelled in my field, finally finding an outlet for my hatred. Life was good. We trained to be the best, and then we trained some more. I trained in my spare time to add to my knowledge until I could do everything, and could fill in for anyone in my team, even the sniper. When I was on leave, I spent time with Karl, who had remained in the army after his conscription ended, and had transferred to Special Forces. I turned myself into a one-man killing machine, waiting for the day when life came full circle, and I came face to face with the people who had slaughtered my family.” Stefan paused, watching her reaction.

  Marcelle swallowed, having heard the hatred in his voice. That bomb in Hanover had taken an innocent boy and turned him into a man filled with rage. It was tragic and frightening at the same time. She kept her expression neutral as she motioned him to continue.

  “At the age of twenty-one, I was in charge of my own five-man team, but every time we took down a target, I felt empty, because I was after a specific group, the Red Army Faction. Using the contacts available to me as a member of the Federal Border Police, I had discovered the names of the people behind the bomb at the train station, but didn’t know their whereabouts. Wolfgang Grams had gone underground and nobody had seen him in years. I hoped we would run across him and his comrades during a mission.”