Brandenburg (22 page)

But not Il Peste. He was meticulous. And sometimes he used the duster, a brass knuckle-duster, to tap the insides of the big steel boxes, making sure there were no false bottoms or walls. That was the one fear Franco had today: if Il Peste used the duster.

The fat official looked up from the documents. “Okay. Everything looks in order.”

“How many you want to do?” Franco asked. None, he hoped, but knew that was asking too much. One, two maybe.
But please, not the last, not number forty.

Il Peste looked at his watch. “I gotta finish early today. I got a christening to go to. Stefano, my brother, his wife had a baby boy. I’m an uncle again.”

“Congratulations!” Franco slapped Il Peste on the shoulder as he turned to the dockers. “Hey! What you think? Paulo is an uncle again. Stefano’s wife just had a baby boy.”

The men muttered their congratulations. Il Peste smiled, apparently warmed by their mumbled good wishes. It was good, thought Franco, a really good sign. Maybe his prayers had been answered. Maybe the man wasn’t going to be too thorough today.

A chill wind whistled through the harbor as Franco smiled. “You got time afterward, I’d like to buy you a glass of vino to celebrate.”

“Some other time, Franco. I got to be at the church by three.”

“Sure, no problem.”

Il Peste consulted the documents on his clipboard. “We just do . . . let me see . . . number three. The third one.”

Franco beamed. “Okay by me.”

“And then the last one. Number forty.”

Franco tried hard not to show his apprehension, tried to stay cool, but felt his legs begin to tremble. “Sure . . .”

Il Peste turned toward the containers, laid out in aisles of ten, four deep, before looking back at Franco, staring into his face.

“What’s wrong, Franco? You look pale. You feeling okay?”

Franco felt his bowels shiver, rubbed his stomach, grimaced weakly. “My wife cooked carbonara for dinner last night. It didn’t taste too good.”

Il Peste nodded, mildly sympathetic, then strode quickly toward where the rows of containers began.

•   •   •

Franco was sweating like a pig.

Come on, man, get it over with
.

Number three container done, and no problems. The contents tallying with the customs manifest.

They were outside the last container now, number forty, Franco trying to control his fear as he watched Il Peste break the lead customs seal before two of the men opened the container doors for him.

Whatever you do, don’t use the knuckle-duster, man . . . don’t use the duster
.

The official consulted the clipboard. “What’s the port of origin?”

“Casablanca.”

Il Peste studied the documents, shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

Franco glanced at the documents over Il Peste’s shoulder. “Oh, sure . . . I forgot, it’s . . .”

“Montevideo,” corrected Il Peste. “Casablanca was first port of call.”

“Yeah, Montevideo.”

Containers from South America usually put the customs guys on guard. Narcotics were the big thing. Franco, sweating, stepped a
little into the container, twenty-six boxes inside, twenty-six big and small, but still room for more, the big container not full.

“What’s the manifest say?” Il Peste asked, but not waiting for a reply, looking down at the document himself on the clipboard. “Twenty-six boxes. All machine parts, except one box of medical supplies. Okay, let’s have a look.”

They stepped into the container, and Franco saw him take a flashlight from his pocket. He flicked it on and counted the boxes, checking that none had been tampered with. Il Peste finally grunted his satisfaction, ticked off one of the entries on his customs form, then suddenly he sniffed the air.

“You get a funny smell?”

Franco sniffed. “No . . . I don’t smell nothing.”

“The medical supplies . . . Which box?”

Franco moved several of the boxes aside, felt the sweat drip down his back, on his brow. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“I think I see it,” Franco said.

Il Peste moved to where the box lay on top of another and picked it up, sniffed it, then put the box of medical supplies aside. “It’s okay.”

Franco almost sighed out loud. But Il Peste didn’t put his flashlight away. Franco saw the man’s right hand go into his coat pocket, the gold-colored knuckle-duster coming out.
No, man . . . not the duster!
Franco watched, horrified, as the man fitted the chunky brass metal into his fat fingers.

He smiled at Franco. “A couple of taps . . . for luck.”

Franco smiled back, tried not to betray his unease, watching nervously as Il Peste went around the container tapping the sides, stopping, then tapping again, listening carefully to the sound, comparing it to the previous one, as if he were a piano tuner.

When he moved toward the right container wall, Franco felt his heart beat even faster, the pumping in his chest coming through his ears, through his whole body, feeling his pulse in the tips of his fingers.

Not the right wall . . .

The duster kept tapping . . .

Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .

Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .

Il Peste suddenly stopped.

Franco saw the man’s head turn slightly to the right.
I don’t believe it . . . he’s found it!
Franco wanted to weep, felt the blood drain out of his body as Il Peste hit the spot again.

Tap . . . tap . . . tap. . . . The brass knuckle-duster smacked against the right side wall, down near the back of the container, Franco listening, hearing the slight difference in sound, just a touch.

Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .

Franco wanted to throw up. Il Peste was now hitting a spot less than a yard away from the hidden compartment. “Hey, Franco . . .”

Franco looked up, startled, his heart beating in his ears like hammer blows.

“Yeah?” The question came out like a croak in his throat.

Il Peste looked up at him in the dim-lit back of the container, pointing the flashlight away. “You got the right time?”

“What . . . ?”

“The time . . . What’s the time?”

Franco looked at his watch, hand trembling. “Two . . . two-thirty . . .”

“I’ve got to call my brother at the station. You mind if I use your telephone?” Franco shook his head dumbly and swallowed. Had the flashlight been shining on Franco’s face, Il Peste would have seen its paleness.

“Why . . . what’s up?” Franco asked quietly.

Il Peste tapped at his own watch. “My watch . . . it’s stopped; that’s what’s up. I’m gonna be late for the christening. Let’s wrap her up.”

Franco sighed audibly, the sigh sounding like a small breeze. Il Peste heard it, shone the flashlight in Franco’s face.

“Hey . . . You look sick, Franco. You okay?”

Franco belched with fear and smiled innocently. “It must have been the pasta.”

•   •   •

It was raining on the Via Balbi when Franco parked his car across the street from the bar.

He saw the man as soon as he stepped inside. Blond, thin-lipped, sitting alone at the counter, in his mid-twenties and wearing glasses. He flicked a glance at Franco, removed his glasses, and wiped them with a handkerchief.

Franco ordered a vino rosso and lit a cigarette. The blond man’s action was his signal. The cigarette was Franco’s: no problems, he had the box. The blond stood, paid for his drink, and left the bar. Franco waited another couple of minutes, finishing his cigarette and wine, then paid the barkeeper.

He climbed into the Fiat and drove around the corner to the deserted parking lot opposite the Banco d’Italia.

A dark-colored Fiat was already waiting. The blond young man sat in the front with a passenger, a man whose face was partly hidden in shadow. Franco rolled down the window, the rain falling more softly now.

“You have the cargo?” the man said in good Italian.

“Sure. You have the cash?”

The man handed across a large envelope. Franco flicked through fresh banknotes in thin wads.

“The box,” the man said.

Franco pressed the button underneath the dashboard, the lid flicking open. His own secret cubbyhole; he had fitted it himself and it was virtually undetectable. The smuggled box just about fit. It was so heavy Franco had to support it on the car’s window frame. He wondered what it contained. Gold, must be, judging by the weight of it. Heavy, like all the others. But it wasn’t any of his business what the Germans were smuggling. His business was to make sure he was paid. He hefted it out and handed it across through the window gingerly.

The man passed it carefully to his passenger.

“Don’t forget our arrangement. Any problems, any inquiries, you contact us.”

Franco said, “That was the last one?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The young man sensed Franco’s change of tone. “Why? Was there a problem?”

“No. But there could have been. The customs guy today . . . He looked hard, you know what I mean?”

A slight edge of panic in the blond’s voice. “But he found nothing. Suspected nothing?”

“You think I’d be here if he did?” Franco shook his head. “No . . . I’m getting out of this smuggling business. From now on, you want something delivered, you don’t call Franco, okay?”

“I think that’s a wise decision.”

Franco started the car, said it aloud as he pulled away in the white Fiat: “So do I, amico. Ciao.”

19

STRASBOURG. THURSDAY, DECEMBER 8

The flight from Asunción to Madrid had been delayed, and it was almost midday when they landed in Frankfurt.

Volkmann drove Erica to his apartment, then he left her and headed to the office to type up a preliminary report. He put a copy in Ferguson’s mailbox with a note saying he’d be in the next morning before noon.

At five, he had an early dinner with Erica in a small restaurant near the Quai Ernest, and they walked back to his apartment. After he had unpacked, he made up the spare bedroom and poured two brandies.

The afternoon before, Sanchez drove them to a small cemetery on the outskirts of the city. Volkmann and the detective waited under a jacaranda tree while Erica said her prayer.

Later, Sanchez had taken them to the house in La Chacarita
where the bodies were discovered, and there were brief interviews with Mendoza and Torres, but neither man had been able to add to their statements. They visited Tsarkin’s residence in the late afternoon, and Volkmann saw the manicured lawns, the paintings on the walls, the open safe in the study. Sanchez’s men had searched the rooms again, top to bottom, but found nothing.

At the airport, Sanchez promised to get the report on Tsarkin’s background to Strasbourg as quickly as possible. His men were still digging through the files at the immigration office.

“I hope to have some information within the next twenty-four hours,” Sanchez said as he led them to departures. Erica thanked him, and the detective smiled and said to Volkmann, “Look after her, amigo. Take care, and good luck.”

On the flight back, Volkmann explained that he wanted her in Strasbourg should Ferguson need to talk with her. When they landed she was exhausted, and she had accepted his suggestion that she use the spare room in his place instead of booking into a hotel. They could arrange that next day if Ferguson needed her for longer.

After Erica went to bed, Volkmann poured himself another brandy. Darkness had fallen beyond the window, the spire of the Gothic cathedral illuminated in the distance. No heat here, just a cold, chill wind rattling the windows.

As he sat sipping the brandy, feeling the aching tiredness take hold, he heard Erica tossing restlessly in her sleep. He thought of the white house and the photograph of the woman taken a long time ago.

He wondered what the heck Ferguson and Peters would make of it all.

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9

The three men sat quietly in the warm office.

The tape machine on Ferguson’s desk was on. When it finished playing, Ferguson switched it off and shook his head.

Three photographs lay faceup on the desk, copies made by the
police in Asunción, and he stared down at them with interest. Faces to go with the story. One was a shot of Dieter Winter and Nicolas Tsarkin, taken with a telephoto lens. Another of Tsarkin himself, head and shoulders only, that looked like a copy from a passport. Hard eyes, a narrow mouth, and a face that was thin and secretive. The third was a black-and-white photograph of the woman, her right hand linked through a man’s arm. The Nazi armband was a curiosity, Ferguson reflected.

He adjusted his glasses and picked up the photograph of the pretty blond woman and stared at it again. Volkmann had paper-clipped a note to the snapshot, mentioning the date on the back of the original photograph: July 11, 1931.

Ferguson penciled small asterisks and question marks in the margins of the report, points to be clarified by Volkmann.

Now Ferguson scanned through the document once again. It made interesting reading. Volkmann spared no detail in describing the scene at the remote Chaco house.

“The remains of the bonfire were analyzed, Joe?”