Brandenburg (17 page)

As the truck came round a sharp bend, one of the boys laughed and pointed beyond the windshield. Kruger looked toward the headlights sweeping the road: a mongoose scurried across their path before disappearing into a clump of mango trees. The boys giggled.

Kruger smiled down at them in the darkness of the cab. The four of them were squashed into the pickup’s cabin: Kruger, the boys, and big Schmidt, his granite face staring blankly ahead as he drove slowly along the narrow dirt track.

Kruger saw the gap in the jungle just ahead and tapped Schmidt on the shoulder. The man swung the pickup left, onto a narrow overgrown path, the engine whining as the truck moved up toward the mountain.

They were an hour from the house. This part of the jungle was remote, the path hardly ever used, furrows in the soil left by a truck or car during the rainy season months before. Kruger knew this terrain; it was the last place on earth anyone would look.

The truck bumped hard, dipped in and out of the rutted track, and Kruger heard the reciprocal thump of the wooden crates in the back as they lurched and then settled back down. The boys laughed again. Kruger could see their brown faces dimly, eyes bright, smiles of innocence. The trip was an outing, and they were enjoying themselves, no hint of fear.

“Are we there, señor?” Lopez’s thin voice asked.

Kruger smiled. “Soon. Almost there.”

The engine strained even more now, the last steep portion of the drive before they reached the clearing at the top. Schmidt changed
gears. The vehicle bumped again. The boys laughed once more as the wooden boxes in the back jolted and slid.

The boxes had been Kruger’s idea. They made the ride in the pickup seem all the more plausible. A chore for the boys to perform; he told them he needed their help in disposing of the wooden crates. The boys looked like the young, sweet boys you saw in church choirs, their frail bodies more suited to housekeeping and cleaning and waiting tables than manual labor. But they had jumped at the opportunity to travel in the truck.

They had been brought to the house three years before the old housekeeper had died. Kruger understood the reasons: the boys were illiterate, barely understood their own Indian language. They asked no questions and were happy in their own company.

Now the engine’s whine receded and the vehicle began to level off its climb. Schmidt changed gear as Kruger stared ahead. The foliage became thinner in the higher atmosphere, and now the headlights suddenly illuminated an open space beyond. They reached the edge of a chasm. Stars sparkled, the night sky stretching out vastly before them.

Schmidt swung the steering wheel round, and the pickup truck turned in an arc and halted. The engine sputtered and died. Silence, then came the night shrieks and clicks of the humid jungle. The boys shifted restlessly in their seats.

“Here, señor?”

“Sí, here,” replied Kruger.

“We carry boxes now?”

“Sí.”

Schmidt and Kruger opened their doors and stepped out; it was a little cooler up here in the mountains. The chasm lay ten yards away. A deep rock cavity that seemed bottomless. No one went down there, only scurrying, foraging animals. Kruger took the heavy-duty flashlight from behind the passenger seat and switched it on, aimed the beam at the ground. He glanced at his watch. Midnight.

The light was good, even without the flashlight, the headlights of
the pickup on dim, the sky above their heads awash with moonlight. He was tired, very tired. He could gladly have slept there and then, but this had to be done first, this last thing.

The two boys moved toward the back of the pickup, ready to unlock the pull-down at the rear.

Kruger nodded. Schmidt reached inside his overalls, took out the long, silenced pistol, and placed it behind his back. Kruger saw the hilt of the big bowie knife protruding from the man’s overalls at the knee pocket.

He turned to look at the boys as they were about to unlock the pull-down, talking quietly between themselves in their Indian dialect. The faint babble of excited conversation could almost have been a final prayer.

At that moment Schmidt stepped up behind them. Kruger saw the silenced pistol appear, as it was aimed smartly at the back of the taller boy’s head.

Phutt!

A split second, then the second boy’s head, just as he turned, his mouth open in horror.

Phutt!

The two bodies pitched forward violently as the sounds of the pistol ruptured the silence. There was the faintest cry from the second boy as the bullet had smacked into the nape of his skull, then no sound, only the ceaseless noises of the jungle.

Kruger pointed the flashlight at the bodies. Blood flowed from the tiny wounds at the base of the boys’ skulls. One of the bodies twitched in the light, a sharp spasm and then the brief sound of air expelled. Schmidt saw the movement, aimed instantly, and fired again. The tiny body bucked, fell still. Kruger again played the flashlight over the bodies. No sound, no movement this time.

“Strip them.”

Schmidt placed the pistol on the hood of the pickup. Kruger turned away, took out a packet of cigarettes, and lit one. He heard Schmidt at work, grunting as he knelt over the bodies, removing the clothes.

By the time it was done, Kruger finished his cigarette. He stubbed it out in the pickup’s ashtray. He was careful to leave nothing behind. So careful that he and Schmidt wore soft, flat sneakers. So careful that he would tell Franz to remove and burn the tires of the pickup once he had returned with the vehicle to Asunción.

Now the bloodied clothes were in a heap a yard from where Schmidt stood. Kruger crossed to where the thin bodies lay and examined them.

“You know what to do. Take your time. Do it properly.”

Kruger watched as Schmidt set to work. He had to watch, had to make sure the job was done correctly. He had seen men killed, had killed men himself. But he had never seen a body stripped of its flesh before. The faces and the fingertips. Not that the boys’ fingerprints had ever been taken, not that it was likely the bodies would ever be found, but Kruger was not prepared to take that chance, had to be certain no one could trace them back to the house.

He watched as Schmidt took the big jagged-edged bowie knife from the knee pocket of his overalls and set to work. He picked the body closest to him, turned it over. Emilio. The face looked up at the sky, eyes wide open. Kruger watched, fascinated and revolted at once.

Fifteen minutes later Schmidt had finished his work.

Kruger played the flashlight over the bodies. Mutilated beyond recognition. Bloodied hollow gore where the innocent brown faces had been, the whites of the skulls eerily visible, the hollow eye sockets gaping black.

Kruger helped Schmidt carry the corpses one at a time to the edge of the chasm and fling them into the void, heard the sounds of each body seconds later as it flailed against rock on its downward journey into the black pit of the crevice. Schmidt finished the job by tossing in the mutilated body parts: gory handfuls of skin and organs. Then Kruger shone the flashlight down into the chasm. Nothing visible, only a tangle of green and rock.

Blood stained Kruger’s hands and overalls. He wiped his hands on the grass and saw Schmidt do the same. The blood would wash away
with the first fall of rain. Schmidt packed the clothes into a black disposable bag, wiped the bloodied knife on his overalls, before removing them. The overalls went into the black disposable bag with Kruger’s.

Schmidt stowed the bag in the back of the pickup and climbed into the driver’s seat. As Kruger went to climb in beside him, he paused to shine the flashlight about the clearing. Nothing was left behind. The jungle animals and vermin that inhabited the chasm would finish their work. Pick the bodies clean of flesh.

He glanced at his watch: 1:00 a.m. Eight more hours, and he would be gone from this hellish country. He might still manage a couple of hours’ sleep before the helicopter arrived. He ached all over now, limbs tired.

As he climbed wearily into the cab beside Schmidt, the engine throbbed to life. Then the pickup turned in an arc and drove back down the narrow track.

15

ASUNCIÓN. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1:02 A.M.

Sanchez was seated behind his desk.

There were dark rings beneath his eyes, and his face looked swollen from lack of sleep. A coffeepot stood on a tray beside him, three cups poured, a half-smoked cigarette lying in the glass ashtray on the desk. Volkmann and Erica sat opposite him.

Sanchez opened a fresh file and stared down at its contents, several sheets of handwritten paper in Spanish.

“First, let me explain what I’ve learned about Winter. He visited Paraguay eight times in the last three years. Each time at intervals
of about four months, each time for a stay of only two or three days. The reasons on his immigration papers say ‘company business.’ ”

Sanchez had already explained that Winter’s date and place of birth as registered on the immigration papers matched the information Volkmann’s people sent in their report.

“On each immigration paper a hotel address was given for the period of his stay. On each occasion that he flew into Paraguay, he landed in Asunción. Four times from Miami, three times from Rio de Janeiro. All were connecting flights from Frankfurt. The last time Winter visited Paraguay was three months ago. Then he stayed at the Excelsior Hotel. Before that, at the Hotel Guarani. Before that, the Excelsior. Before that, some other hotels, but mostly the Excelsior. I have details; you may see them if you wish.”

Sanchez handed Volkmann a page, which he examined.

When Volkmann looked up, he said, “You’ve checked with all of the hotels?”

Sanchez shook his head. “So far, only the Excelsior and the Guarani. My men have still to check the others. It may take some time.”

“The immigration papers Winter filled in before landing: was there a company name given on any of them?”

“No. None.”

“So who paid Winter’s hotel bills?”

“In the two hotels we’ve checked so far, Winter paid. Always in cash. And in each case, he used a suite, not a room, although he was the only guest registered.”

“What about any telephone calls he made? Do the hotels keep a record?”

“Sí. They keep a record of all local and long-distance calls made by their guests; that is the law. But the hotels my men checked so far, the Excelsior and the Guarani, they have no record of any calls made by Winter. The only things on the bills were meals and drinks.”

Sanchez picked up his coffee, sipped the black liquid. Seeing the still-lit cigarette, he puffed on it once more before crushing it in the ashtray.

“No company name,” said Volkmann. “No telephone calls. What about the car-rental firms? You checked with them?”

“I have a list of all the car-rental firms in the city. They will be checked as soon as my men have time.” Sanchez consulted the file again. “The photograph your people sent of Winter—I had my people ask at the hotel if any of the staff remembered him. But of course no one did.” Sanchez shrugged again. “Big hotels, lots of new faces every day. My men are still checking the other hotels on the list.”

Sanchez turned to Erica. “But at least we know now that Rudi was not mistaken about seeing Winter in Paraguay.”

Volkmann said, “You mentioned Winter always hired a suite.”

“Sí. Always.” Sanchez consulted the file again. “On eight occasions.”

“That suggests he meant to entertain, or impress. Or both.”

“Perhaps. But we need more information.” Sanchez shrugged.

Erica leaned forward in her chair. “What about this man who sometimes worked with Rodriguez?”

“Sí, Miguel Santander.”

“Have you questioned him?”

“Sí. Before you arrived. He heard about Rodriguez’s death. I told him we are now treating the case as murder. Santander thinks we consider him a suspect. He says Rodriguez’s death had nothing to do with him. He claims he has been near the southern border for the last two weeks. Up to no good, of course. But he cannot come up with a good alibi.” Sanchez smiled briefly. “That suits us. He is scared and has talked a little.” He stood up wearily. “What he has to say is important. He is downstairs in one of the interview rooms. Come, I will take you.”

•   •   •

The interview room had the same gray, peeling walls as Sanchez’s office.

Volkmann saw a thin-faced man who looked to be about thirty seated at an ancient wooden table between two young, standing policía. The man was deeply tanned, unshaven, his stubble making
his dark face appear even darker, his features more Indian than Spanish. His grubby hands fidgeted nervously.

Sanchez gestured to the two policía to indicate they should leave.

When the men withdrew, Sanchez offered two chairs to Volkmann and Erica. She accepted; Volkmann remained standing.

“This is Miguel Santander,” Sanchez said. “He speaks a little English. Or if you prefer, I can translate.”

Santander smiled weakly. “Please, I speak English. I like to practice.” His smile broadened, showing stained, uneven teeth as he regarded Volkmann and Erica.