Brandenburg (20 page)

It took them almost an hour to find the hotel registration card.

Volkmann found it, the three of them sitting around the desk, a pile of cards and a page from Hernandez’s letter in front of each of them. The signature on the card was in a different name, Roberto
Ferres, but the style was unmistakably the same: the sloped and dotted letters, the amplitude of the script, matching Hernandez’s writing exactly.

Once they found the card, Sanchez requested a list of guests staying on the first and second floors. Now the information lay in front of him, several reams of folded computer printout sheets. Sanchez held the registration card in his hand and looked at the harassed manager.

“The room that Señor Ferres hired on the first floor: the bill was paid in advance?” The information was on the registration card, but Sanchez asked just the same. There was an amount included in the bill for a bottle of champagne and canapés. That had puzzled him.

“Yes, in cash,” the manager replied, glancing at the card in Sanchez’s hand.

“Was the room key returned?”

“There is no need for our guests to return keys. The locks are opened with plastic disposable key cards. For security, they are changed by computer each time a new guest checks in. You wish to see the room where this gentleman stayed? I believe it is unoccupied at present.”

“Perhaps later.” Sanchez knew it was pointless. By now, the room would have been cleaned a dozen times. He looked at his watch. Six-fifteen.

Sanchez asked, “If there was a disturbance in Señor Hernandez’s . . . Señor Ferres’s . . . room, would it have been reported?”

The manager looked slightly alarmed. “What kind of disturbance?”

Sanchez shrugged. “A fight. A disagreement. Excessive noise.”

“My staff are very diligent. If anything unusual happened, they would have reported the matter, and it would have been recorded.” The manager smiled briefly. “Sometimes it happens. Couples argue. Throw things. You think something happened in this gentleman’s room?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“I can check the daybook for complaints on that floor if you wish.”

“I would appreciate it. Also, if this gentleman left anything behind in the room. Perhaps personal belongings. You can check?”

The manager nodded, then left them once more.

Sanchez rubbed his eyes and said to Volkmann and Erica, “The champagne and food . . . I am puzzled. Why would Rudi want to order them?”

He unfolded the ream of computer printouts. The list started with the first room number on Hernandez’s floor. Slowly, carefully, he read through the printout, eyes scanning the information presented. Room number. Guest. Bill charges.

After a while, he blinked several times, rubbed his bloodshot eyes, looked up.

“At last, a light shines in the darkness.”

Volkmann and Erica stared at the detective.

“Someone booked a suite on the same floor as Rudi’s room.” Sanchez smiled broadly for the first time. “A Señor Nicolas Tsarkin.”

•   •   •

The manager returned moments later carrying a thick ledger open in his hands. He informed Sanchez that no complaints were made about the first floor on November twenty-fifth or in the early hours of the following morning. And nothing was left in any of the rooms.

Volkmann said, “Any chance we could see the suite Tsarkin hired?”

“I’m sorry, it is occupied at present. But as soon as the guests check out this morning, I will arrange it.” The manager shrugged. “I’m sorry I can be of no further help.”

Sanchez nodded. “I am grateful for your assistance, señor.”

There was a knock on the door. Volkmann saw a man enter and speak quietly to Sanchez in Spanish. Sanchez asked to be excused, crossed to the man, and both stepped outside the office.

Erica’s exhaustion showed; she was restless, her eyes sleepy. Volkmann realized neither of them had slept for more than a couple of
hours in the past twenty-four. A wisp of blond hair fell across her face; she brushed it away, smiled briefly at him.

He said, “How about you go up to your room and rest? I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

“I’ll be fine, Joe.”

Sanchez came back into the room. “That was Detective Cavales. He got a list of telephone calls made from Tsarkin’s house in the last two weeks. There were two calls made to a radio-telephone link in northeastern Chaco.”

Sanchez paused, let the information sink in. “We’ve got a name: Karl Schmeltz. And an address. It’s in an area up in the Indian country. Just north of the Salgado River near the border with Brazil. A desolate place, with not many people. Jungle and scrubland. The kind of place where a man shoots himself for something to do.”

“How far?” Volkmann asked.

Sanchez shrugged. “Four hundred miles, maybe more. It takes perhaps ten hours to reach by car. The roads are very bad. Jungle roads.”

Volkmann checked his watch. Six-thirty. He needed sleep, to close his eyes, not to travel along rutted jungle roads. And by then, by then perhaps it would be too late.

“By helicopter,” Sanchez said, “it takes two hours. Maybe a little less.”

“You can arrange that?” Erica asked.

Sanchez nodded.

ASUNCIÓN. 6:41 A.M.

Volkmann stared down through the helicopter’s Plexiglas as the buildings of Asunción shrank below him.

It was cramped in the cockpit, the sun ahead of them, the military pilot wearing sunglasses. The muted noise of the blades as they chopped the air filled the cabin.

There were five of them in the Dauphin helicopter apart from
the pilot. Erica and Volkmann, Sanchez and Cavales, and another detective named Moringo.

Sanchez’s two detectives were armed with pistols and pump-action shotguns. Two military M-16 rifles lay beside Sanchez, along with six spare clips of ammunition. The second rifle was for Volkmann, Sanchez keeping the weapon by his side until it was needed.

The Dauphin bumped a little as they climbed higher. They were over scrub forest and jungle already, adobes and huts of wood and straw and fields of sugarcane below. The Rio Paraguay flowed off to the right, a gray-green ribbon of water snaking through a patchwork of greens stretching as far as the distant horizon.

Volkmann could sense the tension and exhaustion in the cramped cabin.

Finally, the radio crackled and a metallic-sounding Spanish voice came over the speaker. The pilot switched to earphones, then spoke to Sanchez and Moringo in Spanish. Sanchez turned to Volkmann and Erica, his voice almost a shout to drown out the noise.

“That was Asunción on the radio. I requested the local policía to meet us near the house. They’ll direct us to the property and assist us.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll be in radio contact in under an hour. Moringo here knows the region, but not the exact place. He thinks it’s very remote.”

Volkmann nodded. He sat back, his body aching now for sleep as he stared down, mesmerized by the vast emerald sea of jungle below, the monotonous, rhythmic sound of the chopper blades almost sending him to sleep.

It was 7:00 a.m.

NORTHEASTERN CHACO. 8:25 A.M.

Kruger looked up at the sky as he stood on the veranda, scanning for the helicopter, for a glint of sun on Plexiglas, listening for the sound of the blades.

Nothing.

Franz Lieber had departed with his men an hour earlier, driving his own Mercedes back down the gravel path, his men transporting the other vehicles to Asunción.

It was warm already, humid and hazy, clouds obscuring the sun. The elderly, silver-haired man came out of the jungle fifty yards away, hands clasped behind his back as he strode up the narrow path that led to the river.

Kruger looked toward the side of the house where the ashes of Schmidt’s fire still smoldered faintly. Schmidt had done a good job. Kruger already checked the house and the outhouses himself—nothing remained. He ran a hand through his hair, was about to look up at the sky again when he heard the noise and turned round. The man had stepped onto the veranda.

As he came to stand beside Kruger a flock of tiny yellow birds flew past them.

“Franz came,” Kruger said, watching the streak of yellow disappear into the jungle. “He sends his regards and says he looks forward to joining us later.”

The silver-haired man nodded in reply. Moments later they both heard a faint sound and looked up instinctively. One of the men in the house must have heard it, too, because he came out with a pair of powerful Zeiss binoculars, started to sweep the sky.

The distant sound increased, a faint throbbing now. Kruger scanned the hazy sky again and saw a brief glint of light off to the right, in the direction the man pointed the binoculars, then another glint as the sound became louder, an unmistakable chopping noise in the air.

Kruger glanced at his watch. Eight-forty. “The helicopter,” he said calmly. “It’s early.”

The silver-haired man took one last look over at the small outhouse, then at where Schmidt had burned the remaining papers, even the old things he had kept since childhood.

All gone now, black ashes, smoldering still. His eyes swept over the jade green of the jungle. One last, lingering look before he turned finally to Kruger as the helicopter noise grew louder.

“Tell Schmidt to check and douse the fire. Ensure everything has been thoroughly burned. Then get the men together with the suitcases.”

•   •   •

It was Volkmann who saw the vehicle first, the blue and white of the police car a mere speck, waiting on the ribbon of desolate road in the distance. The roads here were primitive, brown-red strips of dirt, looking like tape stuck onto the lush, green jungle.

Volkmann tapped Sanchez on the shoulder and pointed downward. Sanchez picked out the blue and white, pointed it out to the pilot. The Dauphin banked sharply, turned toward where the speck of color waited.

They had been in contact with the local policía on a special frequency for almost fifteen minutes, Sanchez translating the commentary for Volkmann. He looked exhausted but came awake now, staring out beyond the Plexiglas, talking rapidly into the microphone to the sergeant in the car below them.

Sanchez turned to Volkmann. “The sergeant says the property is straight ahead along the road another mile. They will follow us there.”

There was a cry from Cavales as he pointed beyond the helicopter’s Plexiglas. “There. To the left.”

The pilot followed the line of his finger. The sky was hazy with clouds, but even Volkmann could see the house, less than a mile away. It stood alone in the midst of the jungle, painted off-white, very large, one of the largest haciendas they had flown over in the last half hour, a narrow, private road leading up to a clearing in front of the property.

As the tension rose in the small cabin, the helicopter began to bank sharply to the left. The pilot shouted something to Sanchez, who said to Volkmann, “The pilot says maybe he can land in front of the hacienda if there’s a big enough clearing.”

Volkmann saw the blue-and-white car race below them, moving fast along the narrow dirt road, plumes of russet dust in its wake.
The helicopter suddenly slowed, hovered, less than a quarter of a mile from the hacienda, the pilot shouting something to Sanchez.

“We go for the clearing, okay?” Sanchez said to Volkmann. “But two sweeps over the hacienda first, just in case there’s trouble waiting.”

Sanchez tapped the pilot’s shoulder and spoke rapidly. The helicopter began to move forward fast, dropping height, going in low. Volkmann tensed. Sanchez clenched his teeth and grabbed one of the automatic rifles and three clips of ammunition. He handed them over.

“For you, in case there’s trouble. But make sure the woman stays in the chopper, sí?”

Volkmann glanced up briefly at the hazy sky, saw something glinting in the far distance, a flash of white light, and then it was gone. He tensed, checked the rifle, then looked down as the helicopter began its sweep.

•   •   •

Volkmann knew after the first sweep that the house was empty.

The pilot kept the helicopter in a steady angle of bank, circling the property in a perfect circuit, then sweeping out, coming in low again, barely clearing the surrounding jungle.

There was a black stain on the landscape to the right side of the house, looking like an oil spill at first, but on the second sweep, Volkmann recognized the remains of a fire, the helicopter’s blades causing the dark blot to lift and swirl as small black flakes rose and billowed into the air, eddying into a scattered mess.

The veranda was empty, the windows of the house bare of curtains, and a clutter of outbuildings stood at the rear, looking dilapidated and weathered, a small wooden outbuilding set off to the right of the house.

On the second pass, Volkmann glanced over at Sanchez, saw disappointment on his face but the eyes alert, awake, ready. But there was no need to be ready, Volkmann knew, seeing the blue-and-white police car speed along the private gravel track that led up to the white hacienda.

As the car came to a sudden halt, four policía scrambled out, wrenching guns from holsters, crouching as the helicopter began to descend on a flat clearing to the right of the driveway.

As soon as they landed, Sanchez stepped out, followed by his men, handguns and shotguns at the ready, Volkmann close behind carrying the rifle, Erica remaining with the pilot, who was closing down the engines.

The heat and humidity of the jungle hit them as they crouched low to keep their heads below the slowly dying blades. Then the swish of the rotors died, and it seemed to Volkmann that there was only utter silence and wilting heat, until seconds later, the clicking, shrieking sounds of the jungle erupted all around them.

Two uniformed policía from the car rushed forward, waving their guns, chattering loudly, pointing to the house.

Sanchez spoke to them briefly, then replaced his gun in his waist holster. He turned to Volkmann, the look of exhaustion on his face saying it all, knowing, as Volkmann knew, that they were too late.

He nodded toward the house. “Come, amigo. Let’s take a look inside.”

•   •   •

It became apparent to Volkmann that something was wrong. No one left a house this empty, this bare. No one picked a house this clean, leaving it like a corpse stripped of its flesh after the vultures had been at it.