Udo smoothed away the creases in his grandfather’s uniform. He tugged the tunic down so that it fitted him snugly around the waist, adjusted his pistol belt, and made sure the SS dagger was tightly in place. He intended to look his best for his invisible audience. For tonight’s campaign was to be a crucial test of his initiative.
Udo’s father had taught him far more than mere family history. Jürgen Zirkeler had drummed into his son that, next to obeying orders, the capacity to show initiative was the true test of any soldier’s merit. Udo smiled into the hand mirror he carried in the top pocket of his tunic. How his secret sharers would relish what he was about to do. And how delighted they would be with his spirit of enterprise. Udo was as convinced of this fact as he was of his own name. His excitement, and the usual gut-churning anticipation of action, began to mount. This was what Udo lived for. This was his Monte Cassino.
Udo chose to enter the Alpenruh via the beer-cellar door. As far as he knew, the place had not served keg beer to its customers for decades, but its cellar doors were still grandiosely in place, situated conveniently close to the road so that the beer-truck driver would have no difficulty de-crating.
Udo picked the simple padlock with a tortion wrench and a feeler pick. He inserted the wrench, put pressure on it, and then twisted the pick round. The click made by the deadbolt as it snapped open filled him with intense satisfaction. It was a big padlock, and pathetically easy to crack. Udo cast a look back over his shoulder. His watchers were still there. He would simply reverse the procedure on the way out, he informed them silently, and no one would be any the wiser. Grinning, he beckoned the watchers to follow him in.
Once inside the cellar, Udo made his way past crates of empty Coca Cola and apple juice bottles, fastidiously avoiding contact with any dust-ridden surface. He wished to look his best in this, his first uniformed foray on German soil. He did not wish to resemble a street cleaner.
He padded up the stairs to the ground floor on his felt-soled boots. He could smell the scent of the house now. It was a German smell, of sausage and spices and coffee. It was the smell of his mother’s house.
He stopped by the concierge’s desk and checked for keys. Yes. Just as he thought. Only one key out. The room next to the one the fake English baron had used. Udo snooped around in case a master key was hanging anywhere beneath the opened roll-top. No such luck. It would not be a problem. He had an alternative plan.
He eased his way up the main staircase, placing his feet on the outside of the stairs where they were flush to the walls. This was an old house. Some of the stairs were bound to creak if he wasn’t careful. And Udo was no lightweight.
He made it to the first floor unannounced. The night-lights were on, throwing a strange blue tinge across the red carpets.
Udo crept to the door of the occupied room. He was briefly tempted to laugh, a sudden stuttering of breath inside his lungs that surprised him. He clapped his hand to his face. How absurd all this creeping around was. There was only a single guest here. And the old lady was probably deaf as well as blind. Udo knew that she lived in a separate apartment on the ground floor. There was no real danger of her overhearing anything. But still. It behove him to be silent. There would come a time when he and his people could come out into the open and display themselves. But not yet. Definitely not yet.
Udo tried the door. It opened beneath his hand. Now he would not have to imitate a cat. In his experience people were drawn to tiny noises. He had intended to scratch at the base of the door with a pen if it had been locked. Just a light scratching. With numerous hesitations. It would have worked. One hundred per cent. But now there was no need.
Udo stepped inside the room and closed the door gently behind him. No one in the bed. But the windows to the balcony were open, and the curtains pulled across. The inhabitant of the room was out there, in the darkness, watching Effi’s house. This was the man who had seen him. This was the man who had warned the Englishman.
Udo tiptoed across the room until he was flush with the curtains. He breathed the night air deep into his lungs. He could hear rustlings on the other side of the curtain. The clink of a bottle. He would wait until the man had finished his drink. It was only courtesy. The whole thing would play better into his hands like this.
Udo heard the bottle being replaced on the floor. Now was the moment. He threw aside the curtains and stood, in the full glory of his transmutation, his arms outstretched.
Wesker turned. When he saw Udo, he ducked his head, open-mouthed, and made as if he would run away. But there was nowhere for him to run on the tiny balcony.
Udo took two steps forward and sank to his knees. He was used to moving quickly. He had trained himself for this.
The man in front of him was clumsy and overweight. He was a heavy drinker, too, given the number of empty beer bottles littering the balcony area.
Udo grasped the man by his ankles and tipped him backwards.
Wesker had time enough for a single inhalation of breath before he toppled. He had no time to turn the breath into a scream. His body flipped once, in graceful slow motion, and then it hit the concrete paving of the terrace below with the thud a fertilizer sack makes when it is tossed from a barn loft.
Udo peered over the balcony. The man had fallen on his head and neck. Astonishingly, given the man’s shape, these were probably the heaviest parts of his body. The single turn had done it. Kraaak!
Udo reached down and picked up the image intensifier the man had been using. A Swarovski NC2 with a camera adapter. Far too good to leave behind. Worth at least five thousand euros new; maybe four fifths of that in the open market. He took Wesker’s phone too. Might prove interesting.
He checked the balcony area around him. Perfect. At least fifteen empty beer bottles lay scattered about. The police would assume the man had been drunk. He’d stumbled and toppled over the railings, which were low and wooden, and probably nowhere near to conforming with European health-and-safety regulations. With luck, the old cow who ran the place would be closed down and ruined. A double success, then. Maybe Effi could buy the Alpenruh at the distress sale and turn it into a barracks for his ‘apostles’? Udo decided he would enjoy living in a house of murder.
He turned to his secret sharers and raised his hands into the air. Then he made a sweeping bow of prostration.
Now things were beginning. Now the future was under way.
Udo scrubbed the outside door handle of prints and hurried down the stairs towards the cellar. He would have loved to kill again – the old lady this time – but he knew that such a thing made no sense. Better to let sleeping bitches lie.
He let himself out of the beer-cellar door and relocked it. He checked his watch. Two in the morning. He was tempted to hurry down and check out what was happening at Haus Walküre. But the thought of Effi lying in the Englishman’s arms made him want to puke.
He would take off his uniform and go to the Cosy Home Club instead. One of the girls there generally agreed to some spirited games if Udo paid her enough. And she looked sufficiently like Effi so that he could allow his fantasies free rein. And tonight, Udo sensed, he would surpass himself.
FIFTY
Hart learnt of Wesker’s death from Amira over the phone, at around ten the next morning.
Amira had checked in with Wesker at eight, as previously arranged, to receive a progress report. She had been sent straight through to Wesker’s voicemail. She had hesitated for a moment, nonplussed, and then some instinct had cut in and caused her not to leave a message. To her certain knowledge, she told Hart, Wesker never knowingly switched off his phone. Even if he visited the theatre, or a cinema, or the toilet, or, God forbid, a church, Wesker would still set the phone to vibrate just in case someone, somewhere, might be calling him with a news tip. Wesker and his phone were inseparable, to the extent that if the drink didn’t scramble his brains, the phone signal would.
Now, face to face with Hart after their initial call, Amira wore a curiously blank expressi
on on her face, like a woman still in shock in the direct aftermath of a bomb attack. Hart had suggested they meet at the Rottach Egern ferry terminal. They had taken a rundfahrt, which gave them the right to circumnavigate the entire lake by ferry without disembarking. Hart had been unable, off the cuff, to think of any better place for a rendezvous. But the lake air didn’t seem to be doing either of them any good.
‘Three minutes after I put away my phone I was in a taxi heading from our safe house to the Alpenruh. I thought Wesker might have overdone it with the booze and not been able to get out of bed. Don’t shake your head. It’s been known to happen. He’s a drunk, not an alcoholic.’ Amira lit a cigarette with nervous, staccato movements. She watched as the smoke was snapped away by the wind. ‘He’s been staking out Haus Walküre pretty much round the clock, whilst I’ve been off following other leads. He’s not so good on his feet any more, so I thought a static job would suit him. But, being Wesker, he refuses point blank to live like a sensible human being whilst he’s doing it.’ Amira’s voice faltered. ‘I suppose I should use the past tense now. I’m talking like he’s still alive. Like he’ll stumble towards us at any moment with three bottles of beer in one hand and an unfiltered Gitanes Brunes in the other, grinning like a possum.’ The frozen carapace Amira had been wearing for Hart’s benefit was crumbling fast. ‘Wesker lived every bloody moment as if it was his last. At least he had that. At least he got that bit right.’ She put her face in her hands.
Hart didn’t know what to say. He supposed he should comfort Amira, but the action somehow seemed inappropriate. The truth was that the news about Wesker had blindsided him, just as it had blindsided her. ‘And? What then?’
Amira looked up. ‘And there were police everywhere. What do you think? A man had just died, John.’
‘You didn’t make yourself known to them, did you?’
‘Of course not. I spoke to one of the neighbours instead. They told me a drunk man had fallen off a balcony. They were surprised there were any guests at all at Frau Erlichmann’s hotel. And certainly guests like that.’
‘I’ll phone Frau Erlichmann now.’
‘Yes. You do that.’ Amira turned away from Hart and stared at the onion dome of a church far across the lake. ‘He was my mentor, John. My bloody mentor. He was renowned for not liking anybody. But for some reason he suffered me. Befriended me, even. He took me under his wing when I arrived at the newspaper and taught me all the wrinkles. Warned me who to avoid. Prevented me from stamping on too many toes.’
Hart glanced up in surprise. Generally speaking, Amira didn’t do gratitude.
Amira threw her dead cigarette into the lake. She shot a glance at Hart over her shoulder. ‘I still don’t know why the bastard took pity on me. A cynical old hack like him; it defies belief.’ Amira scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.
Hart dialled Frau Erlichmann’s number to give himself something to do. Amira’s words had resonated with him – more than he cared to admit. They reminded him of who and what he had been. And what he was in the process of becoming.
‘Maybe he recognized a kindred spirit, Amira? Someone who put journalism first?’ Unlike me, he thought to himself. I put lust first, don’t I? Lust and expedience. And to hell with the truth.
Hart let the phone ring for five minutes before hanging up. He was almost grateful that Frau Erlichmann didn’t answer. It gave him an excuse for action.
‘Nobody home?’
‘Apparently not. So we need to go there. Now.’
‘No, John. Not we. You. You must go alone. We can’t afford to be seen together. It’s far too dangerous.’
Hart straightened up from his slouch. ‘I’m assuming, from that, that you don’t think Wesker toppled off his balcony whilst blind drunk?’
‘Wesker was never blind drunk in his life. He was simply a little bit tanked all the time. It was a way of life with him. He was old-school Fleet Street and proud of it. Canary Wharf, and all that it represented, disgusted him. There was no way that a man like that would topple backwards off a bloody balcony. He’d have gone out like his chum George Best. Or done an Ollie Reed and ruptured his aorta arm-wrestling with a bunch of sailors.’ Amira turned away.
Hart stared over her shoulder across the lake. ‘I think I killed him.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I told Effi that I’d seen that thug Zirkeler hanging around outside the house at night, spying on us.’
‘How does that make you responsible for Wesker’s death?’
Hart shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But I have a suspicion it does. What if Effi confronted Zirkeler about it? She seemed pretty upset when I told her, and tried to pretend he was a security guard or something. But it had clearly shocked her. I think Zirkeler has a thing about her, and Effi knows it. We already know that Zirkeler, or one of his cronies, checked out my room when I first arrived. Maybe when Effi confronted Zirkeler, he decided I was lying, and took matters into his own hands?’
‘Do you mean you are finally coming to terms with the fact that Effi Rache may not be the shining little angel you take her to be? That she may be a rattler with wings?’
‘No. I’m sure she had nothing to do with this, Amira. Positive of it, in fact. She just isn’t like that. I’m more and more convinced that Zirkeler is acting on his own accord. The man is an animal. If you want to know who is leading the gang of thugs terrorizing half of southern Bavaria, I suggest you look no further. There is no way on earth that Zirkeler was guarding Effi’s house in the middle of the night. He was spying on us. And I foolishly gave away that someone was spying on him. It wasn’t Effi’s work. She was just washing her own linen. Wesker’s death is on me.’
FIFTY-ONE
Frau Erlichmann had not answered Hart’s call because she had been taking her afternoon nap. This was a daily ritual during which she unplugged the telephone and used both earplugs and an eyeshade to reinforce her desire for solitude. She was wide awake, though, when Hart arrived at the Alpenruh.
‘Thank you for your concern, Baron. But the police left two hours ago. Twenty minutes after that a female liaison officer turned up at my door. I sent her packing. I told her that I didn’t need bereavement counselling, or social services, or meals-on-wheels. That a foreign guest I barely knew had fallen off one of my balconies while drunk, and that, whilst this was without doubt a tragedy for the person concerned, it wasn’t a tragedy for me. I told her that I am still perfectly capable of looking after myself in this tragedy’s aftermath in exactly the manner I have done for most of the past ninety years, during which I have had far worse disasters to face than the loss of my only paying guest.’
Hart sat opposite Frau Erlichmann at one of the esszimmer tables. He could tell, despite her nominally defiant words, that she was badly shaken up. ‘Please. Tell me what really happened.’
‘You will find a bottle of Niersteiner Pettenthal in the rear pantry. Will you fetch it please? With two glasses?’
Hart brought the wine. He poured Frau Erlichmann a glassful and watched her raise it to her mouth, using both hands to steady herself. The wine seemed to calm her, as if its familiar taste might be reminding her of the solid earth from which both she and it stemmed.
‘It was the SS who killed your friend.’ Frau Erlichmann placed her glass carefully back onto the table. She stroked the nap of the tablecloth with her fingers. ‘I saw them. I heard a thump outside my bedroom window. So I put my dressing gown on and cracked open the door to my apartment. I saw the soldier passing. Even with my poor eyes, I saw the soldier passing on his way down to the cellar.’
Hart wondered for a moment if Frau Erlichmann wasn’t beginning to suffer from the very same condition as his mother. But the old lady’s gaze was clear, and bright with intelligence.
‘There are no SS any more, Frau Erlichmann. They’ve been extinct for nearly seventy years.’
‘This man was wearing an SS uniform. Please believe me when I tell you that. Sometimes my eyes work bette
r in the semi-darkness. I could not tell his face. But the uniform, the boots, the hat, the swastika armband – they were all clear to me in the glow thrown by the night-light. I have seen such things a thousand times in the Red Cross during the war. I was not mistaken.’
‘Did you tell this to the police?’
Frau Erlichmann stared at Hart as if he had taken leave of his senses. ‘Quatsch. Do you know what this word means in German? It means “total nonsense”. That is what the police would have said if I had told them of this. I am a very old woman. They would assume I was demented. They would have ordered me to be sectioned by a brace of their tame doctors and then transferred to a nursing home for my own good. There is no sign of a break-in. Nothing was stolen. As far as the Landespolizei are concerned, your friend simply fell off his balcony whilst drunk. The Kripo in charge of the investigation counted more than twenty empty beer bottles in his room. Not thirds – litres. Twenty litres. And all with his fingerprints on them – of this I have no doubt.’ Frau Erlichmann cocked her head to one side. ‘Do you think I am suffering from dementia, John?’
‘No. My mother has this condition. I would recognize it straight away. You are not suffering from anything resembling it.’
‘Then come upstairs and visit Herr Wesker’s room with me. The police are entirely satisfied that he fell off the balcony whilst under the influence of alcohol. Therefore the room is not a crime scene. They have requested that I have my maid collect up his belongings to be sent to Herr Wesker’s family when they are able to contact them through the British Embassy. You can help me with this, John. You knew him. Maybe we will learn something important?’
The Templar Prophecy Page 21
