The Stolen
Page 39
Her bitten fingernails had remnants of black nail polish and there was a homemade tattoo of a skull on the inside of one of her wrists. He lifted both of them (so slender he could encircle both with the fingers of one of his hands) and pulled them behind her back, fastening them with a nylon cord. A thin line of spit dribbled from the corner of her mouth and her hair, bunched and dishevelled from the car journey, hung all over her face. You’re not so beautiful like this, he thought, before rolling a hood gently over her head. Standard preparation for interrogation of prisoners. Disorientate, intimidate, then allow them the slightest possibility of hope, the chance of survival, of living beyond the blinding pain that eclipses the sense of being human for both the tortured and torturer. Behind me now, Destin reminded himself. Now he was a freelancer, a paid instrument, strictly business, nothing personal. It had been hard not to like her, her spirit. And while he could feel pity, for him it was just an abstract emotion, like a coat you might choose to put on – or not.
Stepping back, he pulled up a chair, sat down in it and lit a cigarette. Now all he had to do was wait.
‘Framed, for murder? Who would do this to you?’ Latcos slammed his fist onto the table top.
‘I told you great evil was coming.’ Keja placed the cup of thick black sweetened coffee in front of Matthias. Lifting it to his lips, he realised he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything that morning. The hot liquid coursed through him, immediately revitalising.
‘Who? Tell me, brother.’ Latcos stared at Matthias.
‘Janus Zellweger, I’m sure of it. He was behind Klauser’s death,’ Matthias said, aware that with his newly dyed hair the family resemblance was far more evident, in the cheekbones, the sweep of the nose. Now he felt a sense of belonging as he looked into Latcos’s dark eyes. ‘I came to the last place I thought they would look.’
‘You’re right. Why would a man like you be hiding in a gypsy camp?’ Latcos said a little bitterly. ‘You will be safe here, at least for a while.’
‘I won’t stay. I’m not prepared to put the camp in danger. Do you still have the identity papers we used in East Germany?’ Latcos patted his chest pocket and Matthias nodded. ‘I’ll need them. There’s a trip I have to make. In the meantime I need you to make a delivery to Herr Javob Rechtschild of the Swiss Restitution and Research organisation. Make sure you hand him the objects personally – there is a letter inside the bag explaining everything.’
‘All of them?’
‘All of them. You can trust him, Latcos. He will make sure the right families get their property back. Where’s the statuette? Is it safe?’
Latcos grinned, then stood. ‘Come, see for yourself.’ Then to Matthias’s surprise, he led him back outside and into the caravan parked next door.
The young gypsy didn’t look much older than eighteen yet Matthias guessed he was probably already both a husband and father. Extremely beautiful, with thick black hair down to his shoulders and a hat pushed back off his brow, he was leaning over a clay replica of the statuette, on a rotating base, carefully smoothing down a seam where two halves of a cast had been sealed together with a sculptor’s tool. The actual statuette was sitting opposite, a few pieces of clay from the casting still stuck to the surface.
‘This is Raga, my cousin from Rome. He has the magic hands of the family and is my business partner,’ Latcos said proudly.
‘An unrecognised artist with magic hands,’ Raga muttered in perfect German, ‘which is why I am forced to work in the antiques business.’
‘He makes the best replicas on the black market,’ Latcos said.
‘Which you then sell at a huge profit while I get the scrapings,’ Raga said darkly without stopping his modelling.
‘Commerce…’ Latcos continued, grinning.
‘Is thicker than blood.’ Raga finished the sentence for him, obviously familiar banter to both of them.
Matthias stared at them, appalled. ‘Latcos, do you know how valuable the statuette is?’
For a moment the two gypsies looked as if they couldn’t understand his anger, then a look of sudden comprehension swept across Latcos’s face.
‘What? You think I would exploit my own heritage in this manner? Now it is my turn to be insulted!’
‘Then explain why you are taking a mould,’ Matthias shouted back. The two men glared at each other; it was like watching two bulls lower horns and pace the ground. Raga, his hand frozen in mid-gesture, the modelling tool held in mid-air, watched on, fascinated.
Finally Latcos broke the deadlock. ‘For security, you idiot. I am not going to make hundreds of her, but just one. The real one my family will hide. Never again will she be taken. This was the best plan of protection I could think of.’
‘Holy Mother, you two might have been born on different sides of the fence, but you are like two peas in the pod – both of you have more balls than brain.’ Raga turned to Latcos. ‘The gadjo really is your brother.’
Latcos shrugged. ‘So God willed it,’ he said unhappily.
‘I apologise, Latcos, I presumed…’
‘What all gadjé presume, that we are all thieves,’ Latcos, still insulted, concluded.
‘Even if we were, we would never steal from ourselves,’ Raga cheerfully elaborated, returning to his modelling.
‘I was just worried about the statuette.’
‘See for yourself. The statue is unharmed – you would be shocked by the value and antiquity of the pieces I have cast,’ Raga told Matthias. ‘Not everything in those expensive houses is original. I have very powerful clients in Rome. I have even made replicas that have then been stolen and the insurance for the genuine art claimed for and paid.’
‘I told you he was a genius,’ Latcos told Matthias. A frantic knocking at the door interrupted them and Keja burst in, looking frantic. ‘Matthias, Matthias, your woman is here. Your daughter has been taken!’
‘Viscon. It has to be,’ Matthias said. They were back in Latcos’s caravan. Keja brewed coffee on the stove while Latcos stood by the radio listening for news. ‘I knew he was after something,’ Matthias continued. ‘I shouldn’t have left them this morning; this is my fault.’ He paced the caravan, in obvious distress.
‘If it’s the Frenchman I know where he lives. I can go for her immediately; he doesn’t have a chance against me.’ Latcos ran his finger across his throat to illustrate the point.
‘There is something else.’ Helen’s voice was grim. ‘The inscription on the statuette’s arm – I have fully translated it.’
Keja looked appalled. ‘You read it? This is not for gadjé eyes, lazavarde – shameful!’
‘Forgive me, dej, I did not mean to be disrespectful.’ Helen turned to Matthias. ‘The inscription is a warning – it reads: “To release the goddess’s secret is to receive her blessing and free the souls of all mankind”.’
‘How is a blessing a warning?’ Matthias was incredulous.
‘Kali is the great liberator of mortal life; to free the souls of all mankind is what we would know as Armageddon. It is telling you the power of the statuette is destructive.’
‘Only if it is abused,’ Keja said.
‘Matthias, we need to take her back where she belongs, to the temple in Rajasthan,’ Helen insisted.
‘No, she stays here with her people!’ Latcos said angrily.
‘We will go to India to find the source of the ore – after we get Liliane back.’ Matthias’s stern voice silenced the others. Just then the radio announcer’s voice resounded through the caravan:
‘A further body, believed to be that of Johanna Thalsmann, fifty-three, a housekeeper in the employment of Herr von Holindt, was found at the Küsnacht mansion this morning. Von Holindt’s fifteen-year-old daughter is also said to be missing, possibly abducted.’
‘Johanna, poor Johanna…’ Matthias covered his face with his hands and Latcos turned the radio off.
‘I will go to the Frenchman’s house now,’ he announced.
‘I’m coming too.’
‘What does this Frenchman look like?’ Keja suddenly asked.
‘Why?’ Matthias looked amazed at the question.
‘It is best not to question a phuri dej,’ Latcos interjected.
‘He’s of medium height, youthful for late thirties. Oh, and he has one green eye and one blue.’
Keja nodded thoughtfully, then reached into a basket and began making something with some cloth.
Matthias couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so powerless. ‘Destin won’t be at his house – too dangerous.’
‘It’s worth a try,’ Latcos said.
‘We need a plan for the Bahnhofplatz. It’s full of people at nine in the morning and I’m sure it’s a trap.’
‘It is only a trap if you walk in without knowing it is a trap, my brother. Remember it is far easier to disappear in a large group of people, especially if you are used to being treated as if you are invisible,’ Latcos said cryptically. ‘Trust me, I can make you invisible.’
‘What I don’t understand is how he knew about the existence of the statuette,’ said Helen.
‘Jannick must have told him before he murdered him,’ Matthias replied. ‘Destin probably befriended him to learn about our experiments and Jannick paid for his betrayal with his life. I should have realised he was the weak link.’ He turned to Latcos. ‘How fast can Raga make the replica?’
‘Very fast, and when he hears it is to save your daughter he will be faster. We can have it finished by tomorrow morning. It might not look perfect but it will look real enough, God help us.’
‘Destin would never have seen it, right? There were no images in the laboratory?’ Helen asked.
‘None, but I’m assuming Jannick told him it was superconductive. Destin claimed he was representing a company interested in SRT superconductivity for industrial non-military purposes. I never believed him. But Jannick was ambitious and we didn’t always agree on the way the lab was run or the line of research. I kept him on because his methodology was complementary to mine.’
‘But how are you going to fake the superconductivity? This Destin guy won’t just take it blind, surely?’ Helen asked.
The test tube with the filings from the statuette was still in Matthias’s briefcase.
‘I have an idea. I need to talk to Raga.’ He pulled Latcos aside. ‘As soon as we get Liliane and the statuette back, I make my trip and you make that delivery, understand? No matter what happens. Swear it, on my life and your own.’
‘I swear it, te merav, may I die,’ Latcos said solemnly.
‘Good. Once Herr Rechtschild gets the Nazis’ plunder the agency will take over; they will make arrests and prosecute. Trust me on this.’
‘I trust you. But I don’t trust the Swiss government, nor any gadjé government.’
‘Herr Rechtschild is not the Swiss government. He has a personal investment in such matters and a tattooed number on his arm to prove it.’
‘Okay, I am prepared to wait and see, but until then, my brother, you have to do more than just dye your hair to disappear as Matthias von Holindt. Do you play any instrument?’
‘The flute. I’m very good at it,’ he admitted, a little embarrassed.
‘The flute! What are you, a woman?’ Latcos looked appalled.
‘Latcos, respect,’ Keja said.
Matthias shrugged. ‘So a flute it will have to be – not very Roma.’
‘Son, put this under his front door.’ Keja pushed a small doll made from cloth and clay into Latcos’s hand; the small head had one blue eye and one green eye scrawled crudely on it with ink and a large pin stuck out from its back. ‘It has the power of the evil spirit Cohani within it and will kill him,’ she said. Latcos tucked it out of sight in his pocket and turned the key to start the Chevy.
‘Go inside, dej, it’s too cold for you out here.’
Keja lifted her thin, worn face towards the trees, which rustled in a breeze. She seemed to read something carried on the air. ‘Liliane is still alive; she’s frightened but strong. She is using her fear to leave her prison with her mind. This will keep her strong. Don’t forget she is of our blood, Latcos.’
The proprietor of the Kronenhalle, a matron in her early fifties sporting a blonde beehive hairstyle, a faint moustache and bright red lipstick, wove her way through the tables, smiling and chatting to the lunchtime regulars with diplomatic ease.
Janus Zellweger and Chief Inspector Engels sat in a corner booth, hunched over their Zürcher Geschetzeltes mit Rösti. The proprietor knew better than to approach them, and with a fixed, neutral smile she slid past to the next table.
The arms manufacturer jabbed grimly at his veal; it was his first meal of the day and, uncharacteristically, he’d slept badly, his dreams filled with collapsing houses and the roar of an army he’d stood saluting in over thirty years before. He did not like to be reminded of the past and he had the strong feeling it was about to tumble upon him as unpredictably as an avalanche and just as deadly.
‘You’ve found him yet?’ he hissed, barely able to look at the detective; if it had been his men he’d sent after the physicist Matthias von Holindt would be at the bottom of the Zürichsee by now, or at least incarcerated in some third-world holding pen.
‘We’ve searched all the possible locations but he seems to have vanished,’ Engels said, distracted by the russet colour of the wine Janus was now swirling at the base of his glass. He hadn’t had a drink for over six months and the scent of the 1978 Clos des Epeneaux drifted over the table, making him salivate.
‘I would say it is virtually impossible to vanish in Switzerland.’ Janus stabbed his meat again. Matthias’s disappearance was beginning to feel like the otherwise insignificant number in a mathematical equation that suddenly triggered the unravelling of all the other related sums – the equations Janus had built up over time to make sense of his world, more than that, to thrive in his world. ‘Especially with a troublesome heroin-addicted fifteen-year-old daughter,’ he added emphatically.
‘If the daughter is with him,’ Engels added, his focus distracted by the violence of Zellweger’s fork-wielding gestures.
‘Of course she is with him! Our professor is an obsessive who’s lost it and he’ll kill again, Johann. It is your duty to bring him in and quickly.’
‘My men are the best in the country; it’s only a question of time.’
‘I haven’t got fucking time.’ Janus’s raised voice drew stares and a slight lull in the rumble of lunchtime chatter. He put down his fork and knife, and took a long swig of the wine in the futile hope it would dampen his fury.
Engels waited. He knew the temper tantrums, although potentially deadly, tended to pass quickly. Finally the chief inspector spoke. ‘Janus, there’s something else, isn’t there?’
‘Naturally I’m concerned for the reputation of my dear departed friend Christoph von Holindt – the sins of the son should not be inflicted upon the father and all that shit. And naturally there is also the reputation of the Holindt Watch Company; I have shares in that company, considerable shares. Not to mention the impact this is going to have on the canton and its people —’
‘Don’t play with me, I know you better than that.’
Janus met the chief inspector’s gaze.
‘Christoph and I, well, you know we went back a long way. So, like a lot of art collectors and collectors of antiquities, we came by a few bargains after the war. And, like a lot of the good bürghers of this town, we naturally took advantage of these bargains.’
‘Business is business,’ Engels said by way of encouragement.
‘Business was business right up until the last day of the war, you know that, and all was right with the world until 1962. Then both the Swiss and the American Jewish community, as well as Israel, kicked up all
that fuss, and we found we had an embarrassment on our hands. So we took precautions. Is that such a crime? And let’s face it, Engels, we were not the only ones. And now, Matthias von Holindt has taken advantage of those precautions.’
‘How much, Janus? And how visible?’
‘The works were completely invisible, trust me. But he found them. I was betrayed, Johann, and you know how much I value loyalty – your father was loyal. You are loyal. It is paramount.’
‘I understand.’
‘I hope for your sake you do. Alas, Christoph von Holindt did not. He’d changed towards the end of his life, had regrets. I have none – so don’t give me reason to develop any.’