Brandenburg (21 page)

Nicolas Tsarkin made his departure the same way, Volkmann reflected. Cleared away everything with equal thoroughness.

That is what the house, the property, suggested: a wooden skeleton. Echoing, hollow, the scrubbed floorboards inside creaking eerily underfoot, swept clean, swept of everything.

Erica joined them from the helicopter, only the pilot choosing to remain outside, indifferent, listening to a commercial radio station he had tuned in to the receiver on board, oblivious to the heat as he stalked the area around the Dauphin, chewing gum.

The house was large inside, thirteen rooms, Volkmann counted, each sanitized, each bare, nothing covering the floorboards, not even a thread of carpet remaining.

Sanchez ordered all the policía and his own men to go through the house room by room, checking for anything, for any clues. Then he went with Volkmann and Erica to look at the outbuildings.

There were three of them. Two had been garages, they guessed, big enough to accommodate a large car each, but nothing in either, nothing except faded, oil-stained patches on the ground.

The last was not much larger. It appeared to have been a storeroom, or a child’s playhouse, built of wood. Again, nothing inside, only a number of very faint white paint marks on one of the walls. Volkmann and Sanchez moved closer, examined them. The marks had been painted a long time ago, and when they looked closely, they saw that they resembled faintly the pattern of a spiderweb, as if someone had started painting the interior and then changed his mind, or a child had been playing with a paintbrush.

None of them spoke as they examined the place, Sanchez smoking a cigarette, looking over the walls, the floors, until he seemed baffled and overcome by it all.

As they stepped out into the sunlight, Volkmann saw the remains of the fire. The ashes were scattered in small, irregular clusters by the wake of the helicopter’s blades. He knelt down and touched the center of the largest cluster. The ashes were soggy, as if water had been poured on them. He found a stick in a nearby thicket and poked at the remains until he had sifted through all the black clusters scattered by the helicopter’s blades.

Nothing.

The sun was out now from behind the clouds, the heat becoming unbearable. Volkmann looked at Erica, then at Sanchez. Small beads of sweat glistened on the detective’s brow.

“Did the local sergeant tell you anything useful?” Volkmann asked.

“He’s lived around here for most of his life,” the detective
answered. “The people here kept to themselves, he said. He scarcely knew of their existence.”

“How far to the nearest town?”

“Twenty miles. The nearest house, ten.”

Volkmann kicked a cluster of ashes, paused, then looked at Sanchez and said slowly, “What do you think, Vellares?”

Sanchez wiped his brow with the back of his hand, looked at him, shrugged. “The Indians in my country, they have a word . . .” Sanchez said it, a long, unfathomable word, a bewildered look on his sagging face. “It means . . . very strange. Very . . . weird.” He stared at Volkmann. “You know what I’m saying?”

Volkmann knew. In both the house and the small outbuilding, he had sensed something. He had shivered stepping into both of them. Something inside him felt touched by something, Sanchez sensing it, too, and Erica, Volkmann could tell.

A feeling none of them could put into words.

There was a noise behind them. Volkmann turned, saw the helicopter pilot call Sanchez over, talking in Spanish.

Moments later, the detective returned holding something in his hand.

“The pilot found this lying in the bushes. The helicopter blades must have blown it from the fire.”

Sanchez handed Volkmann a piece of glossy paper, the remains of a very old black-and-white photograph. Half of it was burned, the right side of the picture cracked and worn, but the image still discernible. The photograph was of a woman, a blond, young, pretty woman, smiling at the camera, with sky and snowcapped mountains behind her.

The young woman’s right hand was linked through the arm of a companion, a man wearing some sort of uniform. Only the man’s shoulder, his left arm, and part of his torso were still visible. The rest of the photograph was scorched, its black edges ragged, flaking with cinder. But what caught Volkmann’s eye was the conspicuous dark band around the man’s arm: a black Nazi swastika set in a white circle.

Volkmann stared down at the photograph for a long time until Sanchez said, “Turn it over.”

He did as the detective asked. There was a date, in German, scrawled in the top right-hand corner in faded blue ink. “Elfter Juli, 1931”: eleventh of July, 1931.

Volkmann looked up, shielded his eyes from the strong sun. He saw Erica and Sanchez stare over at the white house before both turned back to look at him.

“What does it mean?” Sanchez asked.

Volkmann flicked over the half-burned photograph, looked down again at the blond young woman in the picture, and wondered the same.

PART THREE

18

GENOA, ITALY. FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9

Franco Scali stood at the window of the harbor office and gripped the Zeiss binoculars tightly. She was two hours late, the
Maria Escobar,
and in those two long hours Franco thought he must have lost half a kilo in sweat. But now the ship was heading into the harbor. All twelve thousand tons of her. A beautiful sight.

“Franco?”

Scali put down the binoculars and smiled at the pretty, dark-haired young secretary seated behind her desk.

“What is it, sweetie?”

He was glad of the distraction now that the ship had finally arrived. The secretary wore black stockings and a short, thick, black woolen skirt, a glimpse of stocking top visible when she crossed her legs. Franco knew she did it to tease him, an unhappily married man with three growing children. He sighed inwardly. She was like that. A teaser.

The office above the warehouse had a sweeping view of the old port. But it was a drafty, cramped place, and Franco wore a heavy woolen sweater. He felt hot, despite the icy wind that whistled around the port. It was stress, Franco knew.

“The
Maria Escobar
 . . . ,” the secretary said finally.

“What about her?”

“The ship’s load sheet. Don’t forget to give me the copy.”

“It’s downstairs in the warehouse. I’ll give it to you after the
Escobar
’s been unloaded.”

The load sheet contained the original and the carbon copies, all part of the one form so there could be no mistakes, no alterations, as far as the ship’s cargo was concerned.

“The things I do for you,” Franco added with a smile. “And I don’t even get a kiss.”

The secretary gave Franco a flirting grin out of the side of her wide, sensual mouth. “Franco . . . you’re a married man.”

“They’re the best kind. Didn’t your mama ever tell you that?”

She giggled. “The copy load sheet, Franco . . .”

“When I’m through with the ship.”

“Well, don’t forget.”

She was only a junior—Franco the senior clearance clerk, fifteen years older—but she talked to him as if she were his boss. Franco liked it. The secretary thought she had him in the palm of her hand, teasing him, wearing those short skirts and tight blouses. But she didn’t: Franco was too clever for that, far too clever. Besides, Franco Scali had other plans.

He turned away as she began to polish her crimson nails, his eyes watching the
Maria Escobar
creep into the harbor. There was no need for the binoculars now, because the ship was only minutes from docking, the sprawling old city of Genoa off to the left, with its maze of jagged backstreets.

Franco put down the binoculars and winked. “Ciao, sweetie. I’ve got work to do.”

•   •   •

He went down the stairs to the busy warehouse, picked up the paperwork from the tiny glass-fronted office at the entrance.

An icy wind blew in from the sea, and he pulled on a reefer jacket and crossed the yard apron. His eyes were drawn up to the crane cabin, where Aldo Celli waited to operate the grab. Franco gave the man a wave and then the thumbs-up sign. Seconds later he heard Aldo start up the crane’s motor. “Aldo the Hawk,” they called him. Because the man swooped down with the crane grab on the cargo containers as if they were prey.

Franco saw the
Maria Escobar
nudging stern-first into the harbor, the men on docks ready to tie her up. He looked around for the customs officer, saw no sign of him, but he’d be here, for sure.

Sometimes customs just checked the seals, or broke the previous port seal and looked inside the big steel cargo containers to satisfy themselves, or just to show their authority. But they had never caught Franco yet. He was always careful, and this one was a peach. There would be enough cash from this one job to buy a new car and plenty left over to spend on the girls in the smart clubs near the Piazza della Vittoria. And he needed money. Everybody needed money these days; things were going so crazy. Even his old man had said it was worse than the old days.

Franco licked his dry lips. The cargo was well hidden, he told himself, relaxing a little. The
Maria Escobar
almost docked now, Aldo up in the crane, itching to get going with the grab.

Franco ground out his cigarette and felt a nervous flutter in his chest. Coming fast across the yard apron was the fat, waddling figure of Paulo Bonefacio, the customs officer. Paulo the Pest,
Il Peste
for short, because he hassled you, wanted to check every freaking container, every nook and cranny, like the man was looking for a medal from the Italian Customs Service. What the devil was he doing here? It should have been his day off . . .

Il Peste came up to him, puffing and grunting. “Ciao, Franco.”

“Ciao. I thought Vincenti was on today?”

“He’s sick,” answered Il Peste. “Why, you expecting an easy time?”

Franco forced himself to smile back, the
Escobar
’s gangway coming down. He could feel the tension returning . . .
Of all people, it has to be Il Peste checking the containers
 . . .

“Come on, Franco, let’s see what we can find, eh?”

Franco swallowed, not too hard, and tried to keep smiling. “Sure.”

The fat customs official grunted and started across the harbor, to where Aldo would drop the containers before the conveyer took them farther along the port.

Franco Scali said a silent prayer, watching Aldo Celli swing the crane grab round and pick up one of the heavy metal containers off the ship as if it were a lightweight cardboard box. The one Franco was waiting for was a blue container with three gray-striped markings,
and it hadn’t come out of the hold yet. Only five containers lay on the dockyard apron where Aldo had dropped them. Forty containers this load, and knowing Il Peste, he’d want to check almost every one.

Franco pumped sweat as he helped the men maneuver the containers into place, Aldo swinging them up from the
Maria Escobar
’s hold and down onto the apron.
Let’s get this over with,
thought Franco.

Il Peste examined the clipboard list of documents in his hands. Franco knew the man was totally incorruptible, got worked up like a bloodhound when he found something not right on the ship’s manifest or contraband in the containers.

It didn’t happen too often, but if Il Peste found anything like that, you were in the slammer. And no one would dare retaliate: the man’s brother, Stefano, was a Carabiniere inspector. Franco tried to time it so that Il Peste wouldn’t be around when he had something special coming in. Only it didn’t always work out that way.

Like today.

Franco cursed under his breath now as another container swung out of the
Escobar
’s hold, Aldo enjoying himself up there in the crane’s nest—twenty-five more to go—Franco sweating, as he looked over at the customs official. Il Peste stared at the neat line of containers laid out on the apron, waiting until the last one was out before starting work, like an athlete waiting for the crack of the starting pistol.

The wind whistled around the harbor. Franco watched as Aldo swung the crane grab up and into the hold again.

•   •   •

It was the last container. Blue, a band of three gray stripes around the sides. The one Franco was waiting for. Aldo lifted up the container, swung her across and down, landing her with a smack.

Go easy! What I got in there is worth a whole lot of money, you Genoese moron!

Franco heard the dying whirr of the crane’s motor. Shouts from
the men as they finished working and removed their leather gloves, waiting for Il Peste to start. He came up beside Franco, looking ready to do battle.

“Forty containers, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You got all the documents?”

Franco handed them over. All the containers were sealed individually with a stamped customs seal from the last port, or from the port of origin. Franco’s job was to clear his cargo and paperwork through customs as fast as he could. Mostly the customs guys didn’t delay you, took a perfunctory look to cover themselves.