He glances at his watch. He has no idea how long he has been in the river, but he must have taken a breath after he passed under the ice or he would have drowned. He has to have been under water for seven or eight minutes. Certainly for longer than he has held his breath in the past.
Only now, as he stands on shaky legs, does he believe that he has survived. He thinks of her, and experiences a rush of joy. He is alive. Immediately he is shivering uncontrollably. He looks down at his waterlogged, blue-white palms and realises that although the water did not kill him hypothermia soon will.
A distant whup, whup, whup intrudes on his consciousness, but instead of rushing into the open to hail the helicopters, he finds himself searching for cover. Stumbling over slick rocks on to the snow-covered open ground on the bank, he heads for the forest beyond. But when he tries to run, his legs tremble so violently he can barely move.
Something glints in the weak light. A few hundred yards away, a man with a sleigh and a team of dogs holds binoculars to the sky. He puts them away and cracks his whip, urging the dogs to pull the sleigh into the trees. He wears furs, carries a large rifle over his shoulder and his sleigh is laden with pelts and animal carcases. He must be a poacher or an illegal hunter.
As Max watches him head for cover, the man spies him. He seems to hesitate, weighing him up. But when Max collapses to his knees, the poacher cracks his whip and steers his sleigh towards him. Before Max knows what is happening, the man has bundled him on to the pile of carcases, some still warm, and taken him under the cover of the trees.
Max tries to speak but his jaw locks. The poacher's ageless, wind-burned face creases with concern. He draws a long knife from his thick belt and cuts off Max's saturated, frozen clothes, then wraps him in two large, still-bloody pelts. He takes a bottle from the sleigh and puts it to Max's lips. 'Drikke, drikke' he orders. As the fiery spirit burns Max's mouth and courses through his body, the man rubs Max's arms and legs, forcing blood to the extremities.
Gradually, painfully,the circulation returns to his limbs, and as the poacher's strong fingers continue to work he maintains an insistent babble of unintelligible words. Lying there, staring up at the man's face, Max feels like an infant. Eventually, the man studies Max's hands and feet, gives a loud exclamation of delight and slaps his shoulder.
Max sits up and the poacher passes him a fur hat and a strip of leather to tie some pelts round himself. Then he moves to the front of the sleigh and cracks his whip, galvanising the dogs into action. As Max lies back, watching the dogs pull the sleigh into the darkeningforest, an overwhelming sense of peace descends on him. He looks up and sees an eagle flying overhead.
Suddenly Isabella is the eagle again, but now she is looking down on a city. She is flying over her apartment in Milan and can see herself sleeping by the fire.
A knock on the apartment door wakes her. She rises from the couch and opens the door. 'Can I help you?'
The man is lean. His long hair almost reaches his shoulders, and his skin is tanned dark from the sun. He wears a crumpled hat, sunglasses, faded jeans, a creased linen jacket and a red shirt. He has stubble on his chin and holds a battered leather briefcase. He takes off his sunglasses and removes his hat. 'You don't recognise me?'
He looks so different.
'Sorry I startled you,' he says. 'The door to the block was open so I came up. I thought you might not agree to see me if I rang.'
For some seconds she can't speak.
'Can I come in?'
She steps back, dazed. He enters the apartment and closes the door. I thought you were dead,' she says.
'Max Kappel is dead' He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a green US passport and opens it. Beside a picture of his changed face is a name she doesn't recognise. She remembers his telling her how his mother had got him a US passport a long time ago, when she'd tried to take Max away from the Kappels and give him a different life.
She can't resist the impulse to reach out and touch him, to check he is real. Then, before she can step back, he touches her cheek. Instinctively she tries to turn away, but he holds her and strokes her scar. 'It's so slight,' he says. 'It doesn't match the courage you showed getting it.'
'It's ugly,' she says.
'It's beautiful to me. It wasn't your face I fell in love with, anyway. It was your eyes, and the way you looked out at the world. I love you, Isabella. You've taught me that life lived without love isn't life at all.'
She stares at him, not sure what to think, feel or say. 'What have you been doing over the last few months? Where have you been?'
'Teaching diving around Europe, the States, Australia.'
She clenches her fists, anger rising. 'Why didn't you contact me?' 'I was busy.'
'What was so important that you couldn't contact me?'
He reaches into his briefcase and extracts a sea-green folder. 'MAX KAPPEL' is typed across the front. 'I had to put things right.'
She bends down to the coffee table and picks up her drink. Then she pours Scotch into another glass and hands it to Max. He sits down, looks at the tumbler and smiles. 'I thought you didn't like this stuff.'
She sits down beside him. 'I didn't. I changed.'
'I've changed too.' He takes a slug, then puts down the glass and picks up the folder. 'I've no intention of disruptingyour life but I had to see you one last time. I'm going to hand myself in.'
'Why?'
He flicks through the folder. 'This is a copy of the dossier I sent to Interpol listing all my crimes. It's pretty thick, but I guess you know most of the contents by now. The point is, I've done all I can to put things right. Kappel Privatbank is finished, Klaus is in prison and your father's work has been returned to you without anyone, including the authorities, learning of it. I'm now ready to hand myself in to the police, but before I do that I want to ask you something.'
'What?'
'I came to ask your forgiveness. Frankly, I don't care what the courts think about what I've done. But I do care about you.'
She takes a slug of whisky. When she speaks, her voice is thick with anger. Forgive you? How the hell can I?'
He looks sad. I understand.' He stands to leave.
She blocks the doorway. 'No, you don't understand. How can I forgive a dead man? The man who needed my forgiveness was Max Kappel. And I forgave him in Valhalla as he slid beneath the icy lake because I loved him. Max Kappel paid for his crimes and he's dead. Everyone says so. The police, the media, even you. So I can't forgive you, because forgiveness is about the past and that doesn't interest me any more. Right now, I care only about the future.'
'I've got to give myself up, Izzy. I've got to pay for what Max Kappel did.'
'But why should I pay for what he did? Like you said, life lived without love isn't life at all. Well, I want life and I want it with you. If I can forgive Max Kappel and put him behind me, so can you.'
She puts down her drink. 'Give me the folder.'
He passes it to her, and she throws it on to the fire. 'Max Kappel is dead,' she says. 'He's paid for his crimes. No more talk about giving yourself up.'
THE NOISE PENETRATED HER DREAMS AND ISABELLA'S SLEEPING smile turned to a frown. She was so lost in her reverie that she didn't register the first three knocks on her apartment door. The next ones were louder. She opened her eyes. As always when she woke from the dream she felt sad - particularly this time as the dream had gone on for longer than it had previously. It usually ended in Norway, with Max safe but far away.
More knocking.
Suddenly the sound inspired a sudden, irrational hope. She knew it wasn't possible, but she rose from the couch and, as she walked to the hall, her heart beat faster.
'Coming,' she said, suddenly breathless. She almost closed her eyes as she opened the door. But it wasn't the person she was hoping or dreaming it might be. It was the woman in the next apartment who was always coming round to borrow stuff. Usually stuff she didn't bring back. 'Signora Pitti -- how can I help you?'
Signora
Pitti wore a bright green coat. 'I'm going to the late-night store. Can I get you anything?'
Suddenly Isabella felt foolish, not only for thinking it might have been someone else but also for prejudging her neighbour. 'No, I'm fine. But thank you.' Isabella closed the door and went back to her drink. She picked up the copy of Time and threw it on to the fire. As she watched Max's face burn she told herself that it was good to dream, but it was better to move on with her life. She turned away from the fire, walked to the window and closed the blinds.
PACING THE PAVEMENT IN THE DUSK, THE MAN LOOKED UP AT THE apartment. As he watched her close the blinds he realized he had to act. He was lean, his hair was cut short and he had a beard. His skin was tanned dark from the sun. He wore shades and a Burberry overcoat, and held a brown leather attache case.
He squared his shoulders as he listened to the traffic flowing through the city. It had been easy to get her address -- he'd followed her from the hospital, but now that he stood outside her apartment he felt suddenly uncertain. He had been over this moment so many times, but he still couldn't decide what to say to her. And he couldn't even begin to guess at how she might react to his sudden appearance.
Then he remembered another life, a time when he had stood outside another apartment, willing himself to act, only to be thwarted at the last minute. This time he couldn't let anything stop him. He had done all he could to redeem his past life, and now he had to face her and ask her forgiveness.
The main door to the apartment block opened. A woman stepped out. She was wearing a bright green coat. The man who had once been Max Kappel saw the colour as a signal. He took a deep breath, ran across the road, and reached the door just before it closed.
Table of Contents
PART 1
PART 2
PART 3
PART 4
True (2004) Page 30
