A Slow Death (Max Drescher Book 1) (18 page)

‘That was me.’

‘You killed him?’ Eichel didn’t look particularly surprised.

‘That’s right,’ Terium nodded. ‘I didn’t have much of a choice. Carolina Barbolini had discovered who I was. They even had my real name.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know.’

Eichel shot his officer an exasperated look.

‘She sent us down to Bonhsdorf on the pretext of checking out some property that Isar Services was supposed to be interested in buying.’

Max was impressed by his colleague’s ability to improvise.

‘It was just a pretext to get me down there. Dante was supposed put a bullet in my head and bury the body.’ Terium winced at the memory. For a moment, it looked he was about to tear up.

Max cleared his throat.
Don’t overdo it with the post-traumatic stress routine.

‘I had to deal with it. It was him or me.’ Terium looked at Marin and Eichel in turn. ‘Of course, I operated in line with standard procedures at all times. I will make that clear my report. And it will all stand up at a board of enquiry.’

‘Now, now,’ said Eichel hastily, ‘I’m not sure that things will necessarily come to that
.’

Marin looked doubtful. ‘We can’t just brush it under the carpet. Apart from anything else, Treptow won’t want an unsolved murder on their books. That never looks good.’

‘Leave that to me,’ Eichel instructed. ‘I can handle it.’

‘If you say so,’ Marin conceded, somewhat gracelessly.

Stifling a yawn, Max glanced at Michael. He knew that his sergeant was thinking the same thing as he was:
These desk jockeys don’t have a clue. As long as Theo Oster keeps his mouth shut about all of this, then we’ll be fine.

‘Anyway,’ Terium added, ‘when we finish this investigation, we’re gonna close the book on a lot of killings, enough for everyone to look good.’

‘Oh?’ At the mention of some possible good news, Marin’s face brightened somewhat.

‘For a start,’ Terium explained, ‘Volkan Cin shot Manfred Penzler.’

A look of irritation passed across Marin’s face. He could see his chance for upstaging Eichel ebbing away.

‘And you know this, how?’

‘I was there when it happened.’

‘So why didn’t you arrest him?’ Marin persisted.

‘Because, sir, he had a gun.’

Max stifled a titter.

‘Volkan wasn’t going anywhere,’ Terium continued. ‘I knew that we could arrest him at any time, so I was holding off, waiting to see if we could try complete the assignment.’

‘In the meantime,’ Marin sniffed, pulling open the top drawer of his desk and rummaging around inside, ‘Volkan got his internal organs splattered all over some apartment in Zehlendorf.’

Shit,
Max thought
, he’s looking for a smoke.

‘Like I said, things have been moving fast.’

‘We think Volkan and Barbolini had Kappel’s money,’ Max chipped in, ‘and he’s in town trying to get it back.’

Eichel’s eyes lit up. ‘Kappel? Are you sure?’

‘We think so,’ Terium nodded.

‘Kappel?’ Marin scowled. ‘Who the hell is Kappel?’ Unable to locate a cigar, he slammed the drawer shut in disgust.

‘Arnold Kappel,’ Eichel smiled, happy to finally get one over on his colleague, ‘is a top-level criminal entrepreneur trying to build an empire in the New Europe, using Berlin as a base. In all likelihood, not the kind of crook you would have come across before.’ After taking a moment to enjoy Marin digesting the insult, he gestured towards Terium. ‘He is the ultimate prize that Rolf here has been putting his life on the line for. We have been after him for some considerable time.’

‘Fei worked for the Barbolinis,’ Terium added, ‘and they worked for Kappel and –’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Marin snapped, ‘I get the picture.’  Shifting uneasily in his chair, his mind was already straying towards the tobacconist’s shop across the road. ‘You’re trying to nail some Scaramanga-type figure and save us all from a one man international crime wave.’

Scaramanga?
Michael gave Max a quizzical look.

‘It would be a big scalp, boss,’ Max pointed out, ignoring his young colleague’s ignorance regarding James Bond villains.

Momentarily pushing thoughts of cigars to the back of his mind, Marin tried to calculate the chances of some of the glory coming his way if things worked out. ‘So what happens next?’

‘We try and catch Kappel while he’s in the city,’ Max grinned, ‘using the money as bait.’

Marin’s eyes narrowed. ‘And how much money are we talking about?’

‘Three million.’

‘Marks?’

‘Dollars.’

Marin’s eyes widened. ‘Hell, that’s what, five million marks?’

‘Something like that,’ Max nodded, ‘the money was supposed to be used to purchase a warehouse in Karlshorst that they were going to turn into apartments as part of a wider money laundering scheme. It was quite a neat idea, really. But then Volkan started going a bit nuts playing the gangster and Kappel decided he wanted his stake money back.’

Eichel resumed playing with his moustache. ‘And where is this money now?’

‘Downstairs, in the evidence store.’

‘Best place for it,’ Marin nodded.

‘But we’re going to take it out again,’ Michael ventured. Ignoring Max’s exasperated look, he added: ‘We’re going to place it in a flat owned by Volkan’s father.’

‘That’s not much of a plan,’ Marin grumbled, ‘is it? In fact it’s the biggest pile of shit since … since,’ he waved an arm helplessly in the air, ‘since the last time you were in here trying to sell me some stinking turd or other.’

It’s the only one we’ve got,
Max reflected.

‘They want the money bad,’ Michael said cheerily.

‘If you just leave the cash in this apartment,’ Marin frowned, ‘will it be safe?’

‘No,’ Terium grinned, ‘it’s not supposed to be safe. It’s bait.’

Marin glanced at Eichel, but said nothing.

‘We’ve put the word out on the street that this was Volkan’s safe house,’ Max explained. ‘We’re going to let that information percolate through the criminal fraternity for twenty-four hours and then see who turns up.’

‘Okay,’ Eichel nodded, ‘but you’ll be responsible for the cash at all times.’

‘You’ll have to sign for it,’ Marin chipped in.

‘Sure,’ said Terium and Max in unison.

Marin waved an index finger at the two detectives. ‘Just so you understand, it’s your ass if you lose it.’

‘Keep me better informed this time,’ Eichel added, directing his remarks towards Terium. ‘And, remember, I need a full report on this investigation as soon as possible. If nothing else, at least we can put the Penzler shooting to bed before the funeral.’ Eichel offered up a wry smile. ‘The Mayor will be delighted.’

‘Plus the Grozer shootings,’ Terium added.

‘And Serhat Khedira,’ Max added guiltily. ‘Not to mention the Beerfeldt family.’

Marin frowned. ‘Where do they fit in to all of this?’

Max was about to explain but Terium beat him to it. ‘Carl Beerfeldt stole the three million from Barbolini, working with the accountant Bodo Grozer. That’s why they were killed. The cash was finally recovered from Grozer’s garden, just before Penzler was shot.’

‘A lot of people have died chasing this money,’ Michael chipped in.

‘Good, good.’ Energised by the prospect of a sudden spike in his clean-up rates, Marin began rubbing his hands in glee before thinking better of it. Sitting up in his chair, he pointed at Max. ‘Let’s try and avoid any more bodies, shall we?’

‘Well do our best,’ Max replied, ‘but the priority has got to be to nail those bastards.’

33

Shovelling a large forkful of baklava into his mouth, Resul Keskin washed it down with a mouthful of coffee and buried his head in his copy of the Silver Surfer, not looking up as the bell rang over the door, signalling the arrival of a new customer at the bakery. Apart from Neslihan behind the counter, and Resul himself, Kazan’s had been empty for the last hour or more. All the old timers had gone home for their dinner and a melancholy air hung beneath the harsh strip lighting. Slowly turning the pages of his comic, Resul couldn’t shake the feeling that he should be somewhere else. But where exactly?  Since Volkan’s death, the 36Boys had imploded. Time moved slowly. The boy had no idea what he should be doing. He idly picked a crumb from his plate with his thumb and forefinger, carefully dropping it into his mouth. Maybe another slice of pastry would ease his existential angst.

Ignoring the only other customer in the place, the new arrival walked up to the counter. From a radio, somewhere in the back came the strains of “Love Shack” by the B-52s.

Was there anyone else in the kitchen?

Not that it mattered.

Finally looking up from her nails, freshly painted a fetching shade of green, Neslihan smiled wanly at the stranger standing in front of her. ‘Hi.’

The man gave her a nod, but said nothing.

The girl felt her smile begin to fade. ‘Can I get you something?’

After some staccato DJ chatter, Bon Jovi replaced the B-52s on the radio. Neslihan started humming along to “Blaze of Glory” as the man carefully surveyed the range of pastries on display under the glass. His lean frame and sunken cheeks suggested someone who had been born without a sweet tooth. After several moments, he gave up the pretence of considering the girl’s offer. ‘Just a double espresso, thank you.’

Neslihan made a conscious effort to resuscitate her smile. ‘The baklava is very good.’ She gestured towards a handwritten notice on the wall behind the till proclaiming ‘happy hour’ after six p.m.. ‘It’s half-price at this time of the day, too.’

‘Coffee will be fine, thank you.’ Reaching into his pocket, the man deposited a selection of change on to the counter top. His German was clipped, precise, but accented. He was definitely not a Berliner; was he German? Neslihan could not be sure.

‘Coffee. Of course.’ Neslihan glanced over towards Resul. The fool remained engrossed in his comic book but at least he was a familiar presence. The thought of being here on her own, at night, when anyone could walk through the door, made Neslihan shiver. Buttoning up her cardigan, she turned to the ancient double-lever Gaggia that Erthan had bought second-hand the year the café had opened and reached for a demitasse from the shelf on the wall above it.

Distracted by the noise of the coffee machine, Resul looked up to see the new customer walking away from the counter. The boy frowned as he watched the man reach the door, flick the
Open
sign over to
Closed
and slide the deadbolt into place.

As far as Resul could make out, Neslihan, with her back to the counter, didn’t realise what he had done.
Damn girl,
he thought
, all she every pays attention to is painting her nails.
He felt his sphincter tighten as the man turned back to the counter and calmly retrieved his coffee.  Without acknowledging Resul in any way, he walked over and placed his cup carefully on the boy’s table.

Pulling out a chair, he sat down. ‘Silver Surfer, huh? The exiled hero.’

‘Um.’ Gripping the comic tightly, Resul looked imploringly towards the counter, but Neslihan had disappeared into the storeroom at the back. The radio had been turned up but he didn’t recognise the band. She was probably having a sneaky smoke.

‘Silver Surfer’s not bad, but I’m more of a Spiderman man myself.’ The man reached around and pulled a comic book of his own from the back pocket of his jeans and dropped it on the table. Resul looked down at the gun toting Santa Claus grinning malevolently on the cover. There was a nasty looking stain in the bottom corner, as if someone had dipped the pages in ink. ‘I have quite a collection back at home, although, strictly speaking, this one isn’t really mine.’

‘No?’ Finding it increasingly hard to breathe, Resul barely managed a squeak.

‘No,’ the man admitted, ‘I borrowed it from Volkan.’

‘Volkan.’ Resul could barely whisper the name. His brain was screaming at him to move, but his legs wouldn’t work. It was all the boy could do to keep his bladder from emptying all over the floor.

‘Yes,’ the man smiled. ‘Before he died, he had something of mine. I was hoping that you might be able to help me find it.’

Max dropped the well-thumbed copy of
Berlin von Hinten
next to his empty coffee cup and looked up. Making eye contact with a passing waiter, he signalled that he needed a refill. Across the room, he caught sight of a familiar face. A wry grin spread across his lips as he watched Michael Rahn slalom through the tables towards him, the sergeant garnering more than his fair share of interested looks from the smartly dressed women sprinkled through the animated crowd at the Anderes’ Ufer bar.

‘Planning your social life?’ Michael quipped as he dropped into the chair opposite.

‘Hardly. Haven’t got the time.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘Just having a little look. Checking up on what I’m missing out on.’

The waiter appeared with Max’s coffee and Michael grabbed his chance to order a Kaffee Komplett.

Max tapped the guide with an index finger. ‘It’s the café’s copy. I wouldn’t buy it myself, these days, it costs twelve marks.’

‘Having fun always was an expensive business. Just be grateful that you don’t have kids.’

‘Ah yes. I can imagine.’ He suddenly recalled his earlier promise about the boys. ‘That Pink Floyd concert is in a couple of days, by the way.’

‘It is indeed.’

Max let out a deep breath. ‘Am I still being lined up for babysitting duty?’

‘Nah, it’s okay,’ Michael said sheepishly. ‘Thanks all the same.’

‘Thanks for letting me know,’ Max grumped.

‘Sorry, I forgot to mention it. Sarah’s lined up the daughter of a friend’s cleaner to do it. Turkish girl. Very nice, apparently.’

‘Okay. Good.’ Feeling a little miffed that his services were no longer required. Max watched as the waiter brought the extra coffee.

Michael carefully added some hot milk to his cup. ‘It’s costing us fifty marks though. So much for a cheap night out.’

‘I would have been free,’ Max grunted.

‘I know.’ Michael tasted the coffee and nodded approvingly. ‘Thanks. But now you can come with us. Unleash your inner Syd Barrett.’

‘Ha.’ Max chuckled. ‘To be honest, I always saw myself as more of the Roger Waters-type.’

‘Suit yourself. Anyway, you should join us. Sarah will be annoyed if I don’t get you to come.’

‘I don’t want to spend an evening with a million Berliners squashed together like sardines in front of the Brandenburger Tor.’

‘C’mon. It’ll be fun.’

‘Maybe. Let’s get this Kappel business sorted out first.’

‘Fine by me,’ Michael agreed. ‘Do you think it’ll get wrapped up by then?’

‘If he doesn’t show up in the next forty-eight hours,’ Max said with all the authority of someone who knew he was talking out of his backside, ‘we’ll never catch him.’

‘What’ll happen to the money, then?’

‘Dunno,’ Max shrugged. ‘It’ll probably end up in the police benevolent fund – or the Mayor’s re-election campaign or something.’

‘It should go to Volkan’s dad,’ Michael ventured.

Max shook his head. ‘Obvious proceeds of crime. Bound to be confiscated. Even if it wasn’t, it’s not like the old guy’s gonna be around long enough to spend it.’ He outlined the terminal nature of Kerem Cin’s illness.

‘Christ.’ Michael exclaimed. ‘The poor bastard’s really had it rough.’

‘He sure has,’ Max agreed. ‘On the other hand, though, I don’t think he’ll be that pissed off when his time comes. He doesn’t have to worry about how the rest of the family are going to get on after he snuffs it.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it.’ Michael sounded less than convinced by his boss’s logic.

‘He’ll be making a clean break with the world.’

For several moments, the two men sat in silence, contemplating the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, while normal life went on, unperturbed, around them.

‘What do you make of Terium?’ Michael asked finally.

Max made a face. ‘A bit early to tell really but I like him. Must be really tough, living a double life like that.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’ve got to give the guy some credit,’ Max mused, ‘he saved Theo Oster from a bullet to the head and managed to spin both Marin and Eichel a line that didn’t drop us in it.’

‘Us?’ Michael grinned, draining the last of his coffee.

‘Okay,’ Max conceded, ‘he didn’t drop
me
in it when he easily could have done. He seems a decent guy.’

‘Have you ever worked undercover?’

‘A few times,’ Max replied, making it clear that he wasn’t in the mood to go into any details.

‘I think I would fancy a go at it.’

‘Are you crazy? You’ve got a family.’

‘But I’m a cop,’ Michael protested, talking as much to his empty coffee cup as to his boss.

‘A cop. Not an
undercover
cop. They’re two different things.
Completely
different.’

‘I only said I was thinking about it,’ Michael huffed.

‘Take it from me,’ Max said firmly, ‘it’s not for you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’ve got a family. And you’re normal. Normal enough, anyway. You’ve got to be a bit crazy to work undercover.’

‘Is that why you did it?’

‘I didn’t do it for long.’ Max didn’t offer up any specifics.

‘It would mean a promotion,’ Michael persisted. ‘And more money. God knows, we could do with it. Like I said, the little devils really know how to burn through the cash.’ He sipped the coffee and nodded approvingly. ‘The way things stand, Sarah’s going to have to go back to work sooner rather than later.’

A series of grossly inappropriate images flashed through Max’s head as he took a sip of his coffee. ‘Not at the Green and Red Club?’

‘No, no,’ said Michael hastily. ‘She’ll get a more normal job. Maybe as a shop assistant or something.’

‘She’d be good at that,’ Max smiled. ‘She’s good with people.’ Pulling an envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket, he placed it next to Michael’s coffee cup. On the front it was addressed to
The Rahn Family
.

Michael looked at it warily. ‘What’s this?’

‘Open it.’

Picking up the envelope, Michael opened it carefully and pulled out the single sheet of paper inside. Unfolding it, he scanned the contents. Max watched his go from top to bottom, then start again at the top. After going through it a second time, he looked at Max. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s a deed of transfer for my police life insurance policy. If I die,’ he felt himself blush slightly, ‘
when
I die, I want you and the family to be the beneficiaries.’

Keeping his eyes lowered, Michael let the sheet of paper fall on to the table. ‘Max, Jesus, I can’t take that.’

‘There is no one else,’ Max ploughed on, keeping his voice low, not wanting a scene. ‘The only other person I thought about was Clara and, God knows, she doesn’t need the money, not with two lawyers in the family.’

‘But –’

Max reached over and patted Michael firmly on the forearm. ‘How much it will be you’ll only find out when the time comes – and hopefully it won’t be
that
soon – but it should be fairly substantial.’

‘On that – what do the doctors say?’

‘Dunno,’ Max shrugged. ‘I haven’t asked them. The bastards don’t have a clue anyway. All this of stuff is too new; no one knows anything.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Don’t worry, I intend to hang around for as long possible. Clara, as you expect, has negotiated a good deal. The bastards were keen to pay whatever was necessary for me to go quietly.’

‘Yes.’

‘I get a good pension and then there’s a lump sum when I sniff it. It’s all just numbers on a bit of paper; all very straightforward. If you have questions, Clara will be able to sort them out.’

Carefully folding the sheet of paper, Michael put it back in the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘Thank you.’

‘Ach,’ Max said, finishing his coffee. ‘It’s nothing. If you didn’t take it, the money would only go back to the government.’

‘I suppose so.’ Michael smiled weakly. ‘I … we are very grateful.’

‘It was what I wanted.’

‘Sarah will want to say ‘thanks’.’

‘In due course.’

‘It’ll make a big difference for the boys.’