The Stolen

by T. S. Learner

  ‘I promise we will have the son by the end of the week.’

  ‘That might be too late. If Matthias goes to the authorities, there is enough to ruin my reputation, along with several others. Most of the works came without history or recorded pedigree, but there are provenances attached to some. If the works are returned I will, naturally, be donating them to the Zürich Art Museum.’

  ‘Naturally. You’re assuming charges will not be laid?’ There was a slight beat as, belatedly, Engels realised an oblique negotiation was underway. For a second he wondered how much he could bribe the manufacturer.

  ‘What I don’t officially own I couldn’t have stolen, a sobering but comforting paradox,’ Janus said curtly.

  ‘And one that many in this country are happy to live with,’ Engels countered.

  ‘Pragmatism is an economic necessity. It’s what’s made this country great.’

  Engels leaned over and poured himself a glass of wine, his pledge to not drink suddenly meaningless. ‘First Klauser and now Holindt, both on some moral crusade. Klauser, well, he was always like that, happy to deal in simple equations without understanding the nuances of human beings. You need to understand the nuances to be able to navigate the system and you and I appreciate those subtleties – we are sophisticated men. Klauser was a klutz, and clumsy people have accidents. But Matthias von Holindt? Why would the son betray the father?’ Engels lifted his glass. After six months’ abstinence the wine tasted fantastic; he drank it quickly, thirstily and Janus, noticing his eagerness, filled the glass up again.

  ‘There’s an old rumour that Matthias was not Christoph’s son but his cousin once removed from the German – one could say Nazi – branch of the family. The cousin was an SS Standartenführer, Ulrich Vosshoffner. The boy never knew.’

  ‘So Matthias is compensating for his father’s plundering?’

  ‘He’s on some kind of ridiculous quest. Political naivety can be the most misdirected and dangerous of motivations. But frankly, I don’t give a fuck as to the reason. I just want results – at any cost.’ Janus gestured to the waiter for the bill. ‘Speaking about fathers, your own father’s hands weren’t entirely clean in this affair.’

  Engels had lost his father in 1955 when he was six. ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘If this Pandora’s box gets opened, Hans’s reputation will be tarnished as well. You and I both know how close he was to Christoph, and his position was very, very useful to my friends and me during the war – not that he wasn’t paid well for his loyalty.’

  This wasn’t news to Johann – it was merely surprising to hear what he’d suspected for years confirmed out loud.

  ‘You can trust me to keep the lid on the box. But if Elsa von Holindt was not Matthias’s mother, who was?’

  ‘Who knows? Some whore.’ Janus threw money onto the table along with the bill, then got up.

  ‘It’s just that Matthias von Holindt’s girlfriend is an American anthropologist who specialises in the study of the Roma people.’ Engels deliberately kept the comment light, an observation in passing.

  ‘The Roma?’ Janus looked confused.

  ‘Gypsies.’ Johann Engels watched Janus’s face carefully as he said the word and there was a slight twitch of the left eyelid. ‘They had gold taken by the Nazis too, didn’t they?’ he threw out casually as they moved away from the table.

  Janus didn’t answer but his step faltered ever so slightly.

  From behind the till the proprietor watched the two men leave, then touched the mezuzah she kept under the counter for good luck.

  Outside, Zellweger gazed down the Rämistrasse and sighed. The city seemed so unchanged, so solid in the face of his own internal upheaval.

  It took Latcos less than an hour to find the modernist one-storey villa off the Susenbergstrasse; he might not be able to read, but his sense of direction was extraordinary, he reminded himself proudly – the gypsy only had to drive to a place once for the way to be indelibly etched on his memory.

  He parked the Chevy at a distance then cautiously approached the building. There were no lights visible, and the tall glass windows seemed to stare back at him blankly. There was no car in the driveway. He walked boldly up to the front door and, after checking for curious neighbours watching, stepped into the rockery, pushed through the rosemary bushes and pressed up against the glass. The apartment appeared empty and a little neglected, as if no one had been in there for a couple of days. He walked round the back and, hoisting himself up on a drainpipe, looked through the high window of the bedroom. That too was empty; the bed was pristine and made. There was something inhuman about the neatness of the place, as if it were more a showroom than an actual living space; it made Latcos uneasy. After returning to the front door he slipped Keja’s doll through the letterbox then left, a sense of urgency flooding through him.

  The welding torch was a thin, pure spear of iridescent blue light, hypnotic in its beauty. Raga, wearing a visor, manipulated the flame like an artist using a pencil. Matthias, now virtually unrecognisable in the same guise he wore for the trip into East Germany, stood in the doorway of the caravan, fascinated by the skill of the young gypsy as Raga soldered on the gold halo set behind the head of the goddess, tiny yellow beads of metal falling like raindrops onto the tin sheet the youth was standing on. He noticed Matthias, stopped and pulled up his visor.

  Matthias stepped into the caravan, a little wary of the plume of whitish smoke gathered at the ceiling, the toxicity of which Raga seemed oblivious to. The statuette had been cast in a grey-silver alloy that looked almost the same colour as the original, but it lacked the unusual sparkle of the flinty crystals on the surface. The seams and ‘feeders’ from the casting had been sawed off and filed down so the seam was virtually indistinguishable. The figure itself had the same features: the four arms in the exact same positions, and the face was a total duplicate, but it was still missing the cross and nails held by the hands of the right and left top arms.

  ‘The basic shape looks convincing so far,’ Matthias said.

  ‘After the halo goes on, the cross and nails will go on next, then I have to age it. I will work all night. Don’t worry, we will get your daughter back.’

  ‘We have another problem. The statuette has certain properties I have to duplicate in this one.’ Matthias held up the glass test tube of filings. ‘Do you think you could convincingly cover the surface in these?’

  Raga took the tube from Matthias’s outstretched fingers and held it up to the light. ‘It will be a thin covering but it can be done. Beautiful – what metal is this?’

  ‘I believe it’s called sky metal.’

  ‘I thought so, from heaven,’ Raga said, smiling, then handed the glass tube back before lowering his visor. With a pop he reignited the welding torch and continued his work.

  Matthias closed the caravan door behind him and stepped down into the clearing. It was dark already despite the fact that it was only the afternoon. He walked into the small cove of pine trees, relishing the anonymity of the darkness, his breath a white plume against the stars. Now he was alone, the fear Liliane must be experiencing swept through him. Overwhelmed and trembling, he leaned against a tree trunk, the bark spongy and damp under his hands. He stared up at the black sky. The thought of losing his daughter was inconceivable, as inconceivable as the death of his wife. He turned back towards the lights of the city, a barely visible strip of twinkling points on the horizon. The sky suddenly filled with the rumble of a low-flying plane ascending from the nearby airport. The roar of the plane became the roar of sheer helplessness and panic he felt. Where was Liliane? Had Destin tortured her? Raped her? The psychological terror would be enough.

  I put her into this danger, he thought to himself, if only I hadn’t left… if only I’d arranged for her to leave a day earlier. Guilt pounded through him, filling him with doubts: What right had I to jeopardise her life, to pursue the truth? I should have stayed ignorant.

  If ever Matthias felt like kill
ing a man it was now. A primal urge, biblical in its proportions, filled him. ‘Forgive me, Marie,’ he prayed silently.

  He was interrupted by the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he swung round. Latcos stood before him, his face creased with anxiety.

  ‘As expected, there was no one at the house, no sign of either Destin or Liliane.’

  ‘So we prepare for the rendezvous.’

  ‘We will get her back alive, phral, I promise.’

  The sound was like a faint reverberation that flowed and ebbed like a distant ocean. The motorway? Planes? Perhaps even trains going through a mountain tunnel? Liliane narrowed all her concentration down into one focal point; the darkness of the black hood had reduced her other faculties to this – her hearing. Her back and wrists ached but the wave of nausea had subsided, thank God, replaced by a searing thirst. She moved the muscles in her face, trying out its new swollen shape, her tongue thick and alien against the walls of her dry mouth.

  ‘Destin…’ she croaked, now more frightened of dying of thirst than of the Frenchman. ‘Destin…’ Her voice, deepened and broken in fear, only fed the disconnect she felt, tied to a chair yet free-falling into an internal abyss. It felt like she’d been falling for hours, but she couldn’t tell; time had stopped the moment she saw the collapsed body of the housekeeper, the red smear her body made down the wall, the cat watching her with wide eyes and then the terrifying struggle with the hand clamped over her mouth and nose. The memory made her nauseous all over again. ‘Water!’ she repeated louder and clearer, terrified she might throw up into the hood and drown in her own vomit. Footsteps rose out of the background rumble, his, coming closer and closer. Feeling his shadow upon her, she cringed into the chair. Then blinding light filled her head as the hood was pulled off, her blinking eyes adjusting to the shape of a face set against a naked light bulb; the Frenchman holding out a plastic cup.

  ‘Drink.’ He held it up to her lips, tilting it as she gulped greedily, water spilling down her front, her hands still bound and tied behind her back.

  ‘I apologise for the accommodation – not up to your usual standard I know, but it is temporary.’ He pulled the cup away and, squatting on his haunches, smiled at her. She kept her eye fastened on a spot just below his cheek; she was too frightened to meet his gaze – all she could think about was the gaping wound on Johanna’s throat.

  ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ she whispered, tears cascading silently down her cheeks. He ignored them.

  ‘Nothing, if your papa does what he’s told. And he does love you very much, I’m sure. How could he not? A beautiful creature like yourself.’ To her horror he stroked her face.

  ‘It was always about my father, wasn’t it? You targeted me.’

  ‘I targeted the one thing he cared more about than his research.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘He’s a moral man, your papa.’ He stressed the last vowel, making her father sound like a figure of ridicule. ‘In very immoral times, idealists never thrive. In other words, ma chérie, he should have taken the money. Better for me and, as it turns out, better for you. Now don’t cry, you have at least another twelve hours of my company…’ The sound of a telephone rang out. Frowning, he looked at her. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  As soon as he left the room, she worried at the cords binding her wrists, but they were impossibly strong.

  Twisting her body, she tried to take in as much of the room as possible. It appeared to be some kind of storeroom; she saw a few cardboard boxes stacked against the far wall, but no markings on them. The concrete floor was cold, as were the walls, and she had the impression that they were near water – a river or the lake perhaps. Could that be the sound – a waterfall or dam?

  ‘The job’s almost done,’ came Destin’s voice from the next room.

  The fury, frustration and betrayal in Janus Zellweger’s voice was unmistakable.

  ‘The physicist has disappeared! Do you know anything about this?’

  ‘I wouldn’t panic if I were you. I have an appointment with him tomorrow.’

  ‘What are you playing at?’

  ‘Herr Zellweger, you must trust my techniques. I have a sterling record.’

  There was a silence at the other end of the line. Destin could almost hear Janus’s brain churning, absorbing the information to work up another strategy. The man was a real chess player but he lacked imagination, the ability to see four moves ahead then one laterally. Finally Janus spoke. ‘You tell me Holindt made his great discovery just before he went on this theoretical killing spree?’

  ‘He did and I will be able to deliver the goods as promised.’

  ‘That will be some compensation.’

  ‘That’s an understatement, don’t you think? We both know what superconductivity at room temperature is worth on the open market.’

  ‘Don’t tell me my own business! Do you know where Holindt is?’

  ‘No, but I have something he wants very, very much.’

  ‘That’s enough. I don’t need to know the details. And I expect a call from you as soon as you are ready to deliver.’

  The line went dead. Destin went to the chipped sink in the corner of the empty warehouse. A wrapped cheese and a couple of pieces of fruit lay on the washboard next to it. He picked up the cheese and the apple, took out the hunting knife he had slipped into the back of his belt and, whistling, began peeling the apple. The blade, still stained with blood, was pleasingly sharp.

  TWENTY-SIX

  It was an average winter morning at Zürich’s main railway station and commuters hurried through the grey, slanting drizzle. It was only when they drew close to the station and heard the trailing bars of a violin sounding through the rain that they were compelled to walk towards the gypsy band: a motley, brightly coloured group of four men – two violinists, a cellist and curiously a flute player, assembled by the clock tower, protected from the rain by the station’s portico, playing as if it were the last waltz of their lives.

  Destin drove past the front of the station slowly. He could see nothing unusual except for a band of gypsies playing by the clock tower. They were playing ‘The Blue Danube’. Destin hated the waltz; it had been his mother’s favourite tune and she’d played it incessantly until she finally walked out on him and his invalid father. And now here it was again, the motif that had shaped his childhood. Liliane, sitting beside him in the passenger seat, had both hands handcuffed to the car door, hidden from the street. He’d cleaned her up as much as he could, and, concerned about the bruises on her, he had covered them with make-up then bundled her into a clean coat, a scarf pulled up high and a woollen hat. It had been like dressing a life-size doll and he found that he liked it. As they drove past a woman pushing a pram, the girl made a small noise in the back of her throat; he couldn’t tell whether it was voluntary or involuntary.

  ‘If you want to live you stay silent, understand? Completely silent,’ he told her as he swung the car into the car park. She nodded mutely, her eyes wide. He pulled into a space and switched off the engine. His watch said ten to nine.

  The replica was between Matthias’s feet, cloth-wrapped inside a plastic bag. Its presence seemed to radiate unease and fear, like a heat clawing at his gut. He’d never been more conscious of an object.

  Two policemen stepped out of the station’s entrance and started walking towards the gypsies. Matthias looked at the pavement and began playing enthusiastically, praying they would not recognise him.

  ‘You have a licence for playing in the street?’ the older one asked, forcing Matthias to look up. The taller of the two policemen stood squarely in front of him, holding his hand out for the papers. Matthias shrugged as if he didn’t understand Schweizerdeutsch, and Latcos, his face wreathed in a broad smile, bustled over.

  ‘Papers? Officer, sir? Of course we have papers.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a greasy folded sheet of paper with some official but faded stamp at the top. The more senior policeman took t
he offered paper and began studying it sceptically. Over Latcos’s shoulder Matthias caught sight of Destin and Liliane walking from the car park towards the station and the clock tower. Latcos, sensing the change in his half-brother, glanced in the same direction to where Destin, his hand firmly grasping Liliane’s wrist, stared over the road towards them.

  Destin couldn’t see Matthias, and there were now policemen talking to a couple of the gypsies right next to the clock tower. He glanced up: the clock face read five to nine. At that moment Liliane tried to pull away and he jerked her back towards him.

  ‘Keep still!’ he hissed. ‘We stay here until it’s time, then we will walk slowly and calmly to the clock tower, like I am your uncle, or sugar daddy. And we know you like sugar daddies, don’t we?’