Old paint cans were stacked up precariously at intervals along the gravel pathway that led to the rear entrance. There were boards and tangles of wire. In that semidarkness, no one could have crossed the twenty or so yards of open ground without stumbling over something. And making an unholy racket in the process.
That was undoubtedly the plan. Should he knock at the front door, Christiansen would be invited inside and promptly shot; should he try to sneak in the rear, he would trip the alarm and meet the same fate. In either case. Becker would tell the police he had surprised an intruder, a few pesos would change hands, and that would be that.
As he peered down into the shrouded garden, Christiansen couldn’t help but marvel at the Teutonic tidymindedness of the scheme. The SS were such careful, planning bastards. They had murdered people in their millions and laid waste to most of Europe, and all with the precision of an army of file clerks. Everything was always thought through in advance—one arrived at a plan and then followed it to the letter.
Anyone who approached either of the tobacco shop’s two doors was as good as dead.
Becker had learned his villainy at a good school. He was down there now, prowling around the rooms of his little house, wound up like a mechanical toy, but he suffered from the same weakness as all the rest of them; he simply couldn’t deal with the unexpected. The Germanic soul had no powers of improvisation.
So the attack would come from the one place Becker hadn’t troubled to fortify. His own roof.
There had been a couple of straight-backed wooden chairs leaning against the wall in the hotel’s third-floor hallway. Christiansen decided he would also see if he couldn’t steal fifty or sixty feet of clothesline—if there was a utility closet around anywhere, he should be able to find something.
There wasn’t any clothesline, so he had to break into an empty room and make off with the drapery cord, which was only about two thirds the length he would have liked, but he thought he might be able to get by with it.
Like all the establishments around it, Becker’s had a flat roof— Latin architects always seemed to ignore the fact that it rains sometimes, even in Havana—and it was about a fifteen-foot drop down from the hotel parapet. The great thing was to get down there without making any detectable noise, since Becker was playing this game for his life and that was enough to make any man preternaturally alert.
Christiansen set the two chairs together on the parapet ledge, seat down, balancing them so that it wouldn’t take more than a breath to make either one fall over. Then he took out his pocketknife and cut off about fifteen feet of drapery cord, tied one end to a leg of each chair, and let the loop drop down over the side of the building. From Becker’s roof he would only have to give a little tug and they would topple into his arms, one after the other. It was getting himself down that was going to present the problem.
There was a curved drainpipe near that edge of the roof. He could tie the rest of his drapery cord to that and then lower himself over the side—except that he wasn’t at all confident the cord would hold his weight unless he used a double length, and that would leave him hanging against the outside wall of the hotel with about a seven-foot fall to the edge of Becker’s roof. Christiansen weighed close to two hundred and twenty pounds; dropping from that height, he would make enough of a bang to wake up all the sweating former SS men who had ever lived.
He took off his overcoat and tied the sleeves together through the circle of drapery cord around the hotel drainpipe, wondering the whole time if the thing wouldn’t simply pull to pieces the instant it had to bear the full load—he didn’t even know if it would reach far enough. He threw it over the edge and watched it as it fluttered to rest against the wall, and he still didn’t know. The bottom was lost in darkness.
But at least he could console himself with the thought that he wasn’t encumbered with an impossible number of alternatives. He could climb down on his coat—and trust that the Portuguese tailor who had made it for him hadn’t economized on the stitching—or he could take the stairs back to the lobby and forget the whole thing. There simply wasn’t a third choice.
And so it was that with a thousand misgivings Inar Christiansen found himself clinging in the black of night to the back of a dress overcoat, working his way down handful by handful as he felt for something solid under his feet and listened with expectant dread for the sound of tearing fabric. As he changed his hold from one hand to the other, he could feel himself swinging against the hotel wall. There was nothing down there, it seemed, except air. His left hand was aching until he could hardly feel his fingers—possibly he wouldn’t even know he had lost his grip until he started to fall. And still the edge of Becker’s roof seemed no closer.
He changed hands one last time—they were both so slippery with sweat that it hardly seemed to make any difference—and felt again for something solid under him. Nothing. It was all up with him. In another second he would come down with a crash, and then where was he supposed to go? Becker would be able to kill him at his leisure.
He tried once more—nothing. And then once more, stretching down so far that the shoulder joint in his right arm felt as if it might be ready to pull loose.
And then, there it was. The point of his shoe scraped against what felt like a flat surface. Possibly he might have caught on nothing more than a protruding piece of brickwork, but right at that moment it hardly mattered. The hem of his coat was greasy with sweat and slipping between his fingers. He was going down, whether he liked it or not.
And then, as if by some miracle, he found himself clinging to the hotel wall, his feet pressing against something that felt solid enough to convince anybody it was the cinderblock edge of Gerhart Becker’s roof.
It was several seconds before Christiansen could bring himself to breathe, let alone try to move. He was afflicted with a terrible fear that he was about to topple over backward, that there was really nothing there beneath him but perhaps an inch or two of shelf, but finally, after what felt like an eternity, he nerved himself up to let his eyes follow the line of the brick wall down to where he could see that it joined the flat, granite-colored plane of the next building. So far, so good.
Moving his feet slowly and carefully, and staying flush against the hotel wall, he made his way to the rear, where he could see the whole of Becker’s little garden and could put his hand on the loop of drapery cord that ran up to his two chairs. One after the other, be pulled them down and set them to rest on the roof beside him. Near the seam where the two buildings joined at right angles there was a downspout running from the hotel gutters. It was round and made of cast iron and seemed well anchored. It would do for the descent.
Finally, he leaned his shoulder against the wall and began to collect himself. His little plan, such as it was, was ready to be put into execution. Everything was assembled. It would have been nice to have had some idea where Becker was hiding himself, but one couldn’t ask for the moon. It was time to start. That was the problem.
It was four-thirty in the morning. In three quarters of an hour, sooner perhaps, certainly well before first light, the rubbish carts would start on their rounds and everywhere the city would begin stirring into sullen life. There was simply no space left for the luxury of weariness—or fear, or scruples, or whatever it was—but Christiansen could hardly bring himself to keep his eyes open. His head touched the cool bricks of the hotel, and he found himself wondering why he wasn’t home in bed.
Except that there was no longer anywhere on earth he could rightfully call home, something that Becker and his friends had seen to on that second Sunday in June, 1942. Something they had seen to with amazing thoroughness.
No one wears his past comfortably. Christiansen realized he was probably no worse than anyone else—after all, his parents had sent him away. He hadn’t asked them to; it had all seemed so natural at the time. He hadn’t even wanted it, not at first. But at that age one learns new ways fast, forgetting the old. The two of them had stood together on the do
ck at Oslo and waved goodbye. He hadn’t been any more than a kid, so how could he have known what it cost them, what was in their hearts? He was their pride, and he had watched them growing smaller and smaller as the ship pulled away and left them behind. And now he couldn’t ever go back.
There was always so much that had been left undone and unsaid. All the small sins of a thoughtless, selfish childhood accumulate like dust in an unused room.
No, he wasn’t any worse than anyone else. He was merely an exile. The fourteenth day in June, 1942—it was as if they had cut something away with a sharp knife, burning the wound closed so it wouldn’t bleed. Not flesh and bone, just a part of his life.
A slight tremor went through Christiansen’s body, like a reproach, and he pushed himself disdainfully away from the wall. He was finished with being human.
Because somewhere under his feet Gerhart Becker was waiting with a gun and a mighty fear of death, and it was time to settle old scores. Christiansen picked up one of the chairs, holding it by the back like a club, and pitched it as far out into the darkness as he could manage. It came down with a great crash against the wooden gate that separated the garden from the alley behind. The gate was left standing partially open and the lights from the house clicked on, staining the ground a lurid electric yellow.
Come on out, you bastard. The words formed in Christiansen’s mind, and his lips moved soundlessly. Otherwise he was still as marble. Ten seconds, then fifteen. . . Nothing. Then the garden fell into darkness again, as if the light had shrunk back into its source out of simple dread.
Becker wasn’t as stupid as all that. He would be expecting some sort of trap—he would have to have his look around first.
Christiansen listened with almost painful attention, but he couldn’t hear the sounds of footsteps inside the house. He tried to visualize the man’s movements—was he still on the second floor, or had he gone downstairs? It was an awkward business, shooting at someone from above, so Becker would want to be right there in the doorway when the moment came. He would check the front first, just to be sure no one was trying to come at him from behind, and then he would be back. There was nothing in the garden—he had seen that with his own eyes—and pretty soon he would begin wondering what had made all the noise. An animal, maybe? Havana was full of stray dogs. He would want to know, he wouldn’t be able to stand not knowing. And the continuing quiet would make him bolder. He would come back. It only needed a little patience.
Below a certain latitude there is no such thing as silence, and that subtropical night was filled with tiny sounds. Splashes of rainwater were still falling from tree branches and telephone lines, and the dull, scraping noises of insects rose and fell like a bad radio signal. It was a question of listening for the one slight suggestion of a human presence in all the chaos of overlapping, patternless murmurs.
Christiansen tried not to move. He didn’t want to create any distractions, not even so much as the whisper of his coat sleeve as it brushed against the side of his dinner jacket. He would have liked to stop breathing.
And then, there it was. Some twenty feet below him, the screen door strained slightly on its hinges. Becker was standing there behind it, his hand pressing against the wire mesh, wondering if he had the nerve to step outside and check to make sure there were no unpleasant surprises waiting for him in his back yard.
When the lights went back on, Christiansen could hardly keep himself from starting. But he was patient. He almost didn’t breathe as, slowly, the screen door opened and Becker stepped out from the protecting walls of his house.
What can you tell about a man from looking down at the top of his head? Becker’s hair was thinning—that was about all. The light shone against his scalp as he stood with his left arm akimbo. For the rest, he was simply a blank.
He was still too close to the house. He was waiting—he wanted to feel safe before he began moving out into the garden. Christiansen could see the pistol in his right hand.
And then, one pace. And then, two. The screen door closed quietly behind him. He was out now, looking around. In another second he would turn back to the house. There was no time to lose.
Christiansen picked up the second chair, lifting it all the way up over his head. He had only the one chance to make good.
Perhaps Becker heard something, because at the last instant he glanced up. The chair caught him across the face and shoulders, knocking him to the ground, but Christiansen didn’t wait to see—he was already over the side of the building, his hands clamped around the metal downspout as he began sliding to the ground. He hit the earth with a thump, the impact almost making him lose his balance. As he turned around, he saw Becker trying to push himself up with his hands. He was looking at Christiansen with eyes that flickered fearfully in the yellow light. The gun he had dropped in falling wasn’t more than a foot from his right elbow. It would have been little enough trouble to pick it up again.
But Christiansen didn’t give him a chance to remember about weapons. He covered the distance between them in a few quick strides and, with a kick like the stroke of a piston, caught Becker precisely on the side of the head.
. . . . .
The basement was small, square, astonishingly deep, and permeated with the smell of tobacco. There were a few packing crates around made of dark rough wood with what might have been the names of plantations burned into the slats, so perhaps Becker stored his wares down here.
Becker was still unconscious, hanging from a sewer pipe by a rope that looped around his chest and under his arms. His hands were tied behind his back and his head was drooping down forlornly. He would twist clockwise through a slow quarter of a turn and then gradually stop and then begin slowly twisting counterclockwise. He looked like a corpse on a gibbet.
There was a double strand of heavy catgut around his neck, knotted just behind his left ear. It was hanging loose for the moment; as gradually Becker began to come back to himself, he seemed not even to know it was there. He shook his head and looked down at the chair that had been placed about six inches beneath the points of his toes. He stretched out one foot, trying to touch the flat seat, but he couldn’t quite reach it.
Christiansen, who was sitting on an old steamer trunk only a few yards away, watched unsympathetically.
“Let me down from here,” Becker whispered hoarsely. He had probably been a strong man once, but in his middle thirties, and after only a few years of peace, his face had begun to take on a doughy appearance. The color in his checks and across the bridge of his nose was blotchy, and his small, close-set brown eyes seemed wet and nearsighted. He was streaming with sweat; it collected in the creases around his mouth and made the bald crown of his head gleam like a polished window.
“For God’s sake, let me down.”
“All right.”
Christiansen got up slowly and took the pocketknife from his trousers. He smiled as he opened it, as if he were looking forward to drawing the blade across Becker’s throat. He wanted Becker to be afraid. A frightened man was easier to manipulate.
Becker’s eyes widened as he watched—the knife blade held them as if by some enchantment.
“If you want down, you can come down,” Christiansen said, stepping up beside Becker and resting a hand delicately on his shoulder. With a slight pressure he set him rocking back clockwise at the end of his rope, which creaked against the sewer pipe as Becker swayed back and forth and then came to rest. Christiansen reached up and cut the knot.
Becker’s heels hit the chair’s wooden seat with a loud smack, and a panicky gurgle escaped him as the catgut noose tightened on his windpipe. He lost his balance almost at once and, as his knees buckled, he tried to scream for help, but the sound was cut short. His face went a deep purplish red as slowly he began to strangle.
For a moment Christiansen merely watched. The faint smile had never left his face and his cold, pitiless eyes narrowed slightly, as if he found the spectacle amusing. Then, finally, he grabbed Becker by the arms and helpe
d him to regain his footing. For the moment, Becker was worth more alive.
“Stand up straight— that’s it.” Christiansen sat down again on the steamer trunk and crossed his legs. He took a half-empty packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his dinner jacket and lit one. “The noose will slacken of its own so long as you keep the pressure off. But, of course, if you relax a little. . .”
He made a vague gesture with his right hand, as if to suggest that he couldn’t he held responsible for the inevitable, and the smoke from his cigarette drifted through the air in a ragged line. Becker, who was filling his lungs in quick, heavy gasps, watched him with an expression of undisguised horror.
“Of course, it’s only a matter of time until you grow tired, isn’t it. One can’t keep at attention forever. You could try switching your weight from one leg to the other—you might last a little longer that way—but it’ll all come out the same in the end. You’ve been a soldier. You’ve seen men faint on parade, just keel over from one minute to the next. Or your muscles will cramp up and you’ll lose your balance again. Only next time I won’t come to your aid. I’ll merely sit here and watch.”
The two men understood each other perfectly. Becker knew that no one was kidding, and that was fine. Christiansen allowed himself the luxury of a shrug.
“How long do you think you can last?” he went on, flicking the ash from his cigarette onto the basement’s cement floor. “A few hours? More? I can wait—I don’t begrudge you the time.”
“What do you want? I’ll give you anything you want!” Becker’s head squirmed pleadingly in the noose, and the white catgut disappeared into the folds of his neck. His eyes seemed ready to start out of their sockets. “What is this about?”
Christiansen frowned suddenly and threw his cigarette to the floor. “You shouldn’t have tried to trick me. You should have known it wouldn’t work. I don’t make deals with members of the Fifth Brigade.”
The Linz Tattoo Page 2
