Stone Cold (15 page)

“What’s that?” I asked politely.

“He’s working for the police force, in the legal department.”

“You know what?” I said. “I’m going to try to put off this evening’s meeting until tomorrow. It’s good seeing you again and I really would like hear all about your life and meet Hans.”

*

As it turned out, I did enjoy meeting Hans. I arrived with a bunch of roses for Maryika and was greeted with a kiss on the cheek and an enthusiastic introduction. I was, Hans was to understand, an old friend and a very intelligent and sophisticated American with a lot of interesting views about everything. He was good-looking, medium height with sharp regular features, blue eyes, prematurely greying hair and a confident manner. Maryika was still doing well for herself. He responded warmly and was very conversational over dinner, a veal stew that Maryika had whipped up. He was interested to hear my views on American life and politics, and on German life and politics also, although I was less forthright here. He congratulated me on my German. Maryika was happy as she looked on our exchanges, her two men coming together at her table.

I asked whether there was as much anti-Americanism in Europe as there used to be. “Probably less,” he said. “The Cold War is over. In those days you were helping defend us against the Russians and nobody likes being helped. Mind you, some Europeans were bowled over by America and everything American. Particularly Germans after the war. A lot of people love their conquerors, and we couldn’t love the Russians. Personally, I was never in love with America.”

“You’re not in love with America? What’s wrong with you? Are you a Muslim terrorist or something?”

“I know you’re joking, David, but a lot of Americans think that way. I get along very well with Frau Bliegensdorf, who lives next door. She’s very nice and also quite pretty, but I’m not in love with her. Why does everybody have to love America?”

I pondered this. “I don’t think it’s so much that we want to be loved as that most Americans can’t see why everybody
doesn’t
love America. What about Germany? Do you want to be loved?”

“Us? Ever since World War Two, we’ve just wanted to be accepted. I don’t think we ever wanted to be loved. The Kaiser wanted us to be looked up to. The man I mustn’t mention wanted us to be feared. We still haven’t quite got over having been the really bad guys. We’re still nervous about being the big guys. Having the strongest economy in Europe worries us.”

“Yes, you get some resentment.”

“But we can’t help it. We’re a big country and we’re good at making things. What do they want us to do? Be more lazy? Be more stupid? Have another glass of wine, it’s a decent Bordeaux. We Germans make pretty good hock but we’re no good on red wines. We’re not better at everything.”

I accepted another glass and then he said, “You haven’t really told us what you’re doing in Berlin.”

I told them the story of the diamond. I did not go into all the details, but I told them about the links in the chain all the back to Otto Mollering. “Now I’ve hit a dead end,” I concluded.

I did not have to say the next bit; Maryika said it for me. “Hans, it seems that David needs to find out more about this man who was murdered. Perhaps you could help him. You have a senior position, you can get at police files, can’t you?”

“I think I can,” he said. “Strictly speaking I shouldn’t but I’m not too strict about things. You see? I’m not your caricature German. I sometimes break the rules. I’ll see what I can do.”

“I would certainly be very grateful,” I said.

“Call me at my office tomorrow afternoon and I’ll let you know what I’ve found.”

He was as good as his word. We met at a bar near his office after he had finished work. He had clearly made this his project. He took out a notebook and consulted it as he told me his findings.

“It’s on the list of unsolved cases. We don’t know a lot,” he said. “It seems that Otto Mollering opened the door to the man who killed him. There were signs of a fight: he had a bruise as well as a bullet wound. It was his own pistol. They think he may have pulled the gun on the intruder, and the other man got it away from him. Perhaps the killing was an accident. The drawers had been ransacked but Mollering’s wallet was still in his pocket with some money in it.

“Apparently Mollering was a loner. Didn’t talk to the neighbours much. They said he was not very friendly, and he didn’t seem to have many friends.”

“Did he have any connection with the diamond trade?”

“Diamonds? No, there’s no mention of that in the file. He used to work for a big technology company, they make everything from telephones to nuclear power plants. He left them some time ago and he didn’t seem to have a job. The detectives wondered what he did for money since he hadn’t drawn a salary for several years.”

“So what did he do for money?”

“They looked at his bank account and found that until recently he was getting regular payments of four thousand euros a month.”

“Do they know where these came from?”

“Yes, a bank in Switzerland. From the account of someone called…” He consulted his notes. “Stavros Stakis.”

CHAPTER TEN

The scenery from the window of the train climbing up the mountainside from Geneva was different. The first snow had fallen and a white layer covered the mountainside, with sprigs of grass or edelweiss poking through here and there. It was a thin layer, and would melt as the daytime sun grew stronger.

Sitting in the train, I was trying to compose a letter to Stakis bringing in my new knowledge that might prompt him to talk to me about the diamond. The only plausible scenario I could think of was that the diamond was stolen or acquired illegally and Stakis had a hand in it. Mollering was blackmailing him, hence the regular payments, and Stakis got tired of paying him and sent somebody to kill him. That would link Stakis, Mollering, and the diamond. If it were true, he was hardly going to tell me about it. If he thought I knew whatever it was that Mollering knew, he might have me rubbed out also.

What could I write to him? “In view of what I have discovered about you and Otto Mollering…” I shouldn’t try to be too obviously threatening. “I’m a friend of Otto Mollering and…” But where to after that?” Simply say I wanted to ask him about the origin of the diamond and then say, “I won’t ask about your financial relations with Otto Mollering,” springing it on him. That was a more subtle threat.

But the blackmail idea was only supposition and there might be another explanation. I could not be certain that his payments to Otto Mollering were illegal, or even that they were secret. I was not sure what I was going to do here but the trail had led back here and I had to follow it. It was becoming my practice now to go where the trail of the diamond led, and work out what to do when I got there. I was still trying to work it out.

At the Hotel Bellevue, Max greeted me. “If you’d come a little later I couldn’t have found you a room,” he said. “The winter sports crowd will be arriving soon.”

I telephoned Maggie and told her I was back in the neighbourhood. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Is it still to do with Stavros?”

“Yes, and I don’t know what I’m doing here. I didn’t last time either but something happened. I hope I’ll come up with something this time.”

She agreed to have dinner with me the following evening. “Not at the hotel. I’d prefer a restaurant in town.”

“All right, but you’ll have to suggest one.”

It was a good choice, quiet, candles on the tables, no cuckoo clock frippery, good food, quiet service. I wondered how many men had taken her out to dinner here, and what men. I was careful not to ask anything about Stakis but she volunteered some information. “I don’t know whether you’re getting anywhere with Stavros, but he’s likely to be even less approachable now than he was before. His wife is very ill. Probably dying.”

“Do you know what’s wrong?”

“She has a tumour on the lung. He’s very attached to his wife, even though he has his bimbos when he travels abroad.”

I thought to myself that this was the curse of the diamond again. It really did seem to be accompanied by misfortune wherever it went.

Maggie said, “I’m not one of his bimbos, by the way.”

“I didn’t think so for a moment. You’re not bimbo material.”

I told her about my travels, without telling her what I’d done. She told me she had been to Milan with Stakis last week, but he was not likely to do any travelling soon because he did not want to be away from his wife. “Frankly, I was finding his attitude to business more and more objectionable, although he’s always been a considerate employer to me. But his wife’s illness seems to have brought out his more sympathetic side. I’ve become rather fond of the old rogue.”

The evening went well, and at the end of it as we got into our car, I suggested that we go back to the Bellevue together. “No, I’m afraid not,” she said gently. “For one thing, it’s the wrong time.”

“All right, I understand,” I said. “Wait a minute, what do you mean by ‘For one thing’? What are the other things?”

She mumbled awkwardly. “I don’t know how long you’ll stay here.” She licked her lips nervously. “I don’t like one-night stands.”

“You’re worth more than a one-night stand,” I said.

“Just not now. If you don’t mind.” I left it at that.

*

The next day I decided to go for a walk. Exercises in a hotel room are good as far as they go but I needed something outdoors. I would have liked to have gone jogging but I had not brought a sweatshirt and sweatpants. I walked up the hill into Villars, and once I was on the level, I went briskly through the town, my breath coming in vapours with each step like a puffing steam engine.

I did not realize how much Villars was given over to skiing. Every other storefront seemed to be selling ski equipment or ski clothes, or advertising skiing instruction or mountain guides. Walking through with no intention of skiing I felt an intruder, like someone at Carnegie Hall who doesn’t like music, or someone at the Yankee Stadium who isn’t interested in baseball. It was rich also, or at any rate catered to rich people, with luxury boutiques and some very smart restaurants.

I stopped at lunchtime. I bought the day’s
Tribune
de
Genève
and found a modest bistro in a side street away from the expensive glitz. It was half-full, with solid wooden tables and chairs, and the warm air hit me in the face as I walked in through the door. I ordered a bowl of potato soup, which came thick, with bits of potato and sprigs of greenery in it, accompanied by a chunk of coarse-grained bread; its warmth coursed through me. I sipped it slowly while I read my paper.

Two men walked in bringing a burst of cold air with them and clumped across the room. I glanced up and my heart missed a beat. The first of the two men had a familiar face, one that had featured in nightmares for a week. It was the face that had looked at me over the barrel of a pistol in the driving mirror on that road in Norfolk.

I followed him with my eyes as the pair went to a table and sat down and yes, it was him, no doubt about it, with the same black moustache. I went cold. I even thought I recognized his companion as one of the other two men in that attack. That day they had not seen me as clearly as I had seen them since they were behind me, and in any case there was no reason for them to remember me. They started talking softly, and I caught just enough to hear that they were speaking in Italian.

My stomach was churning but I started to think about this. They were kidnappers. That was their profession. It was possible that they had come here for a holiday, but much more likely that they were here on a job. Who was there in the neighbourhood eminently worth kidnapping? With a wealthy family who would pay a lot of money to have someone returned? Sylvie Stakis, or perhaps another member of the Stakis family. There might be another target, but the Stakis family seemed the most likely. I finished my soup and bread slowly and left.

A number of cars were parked outside and I had no way of knowing which was theirs, if any. A few doors down the street on the opposite side was a bar, one floor up. I went in and took a seat next to the window, ordered a glass of wine since it was too cold for beer, and watched the bistro door. They came out after a while and got into a grey Toyota Land Cruiser. Clearly, they wanted something roomy. I jotted the licence number down on a paper napkin. Then I went out and rented a car, a small two-door Peugeot, and drove back to the hotel.

I sought out Max, the owner. I reminded him that he had shown me his guns. I told him that I had some time to waste and had rented a car. I said I planned to drive around the countryside and look at the scenery. I would like also to do a little hunting while I was going around, just rabbits or birds. Could I borrow his pistol?

“It’s not made for hunting,” he said.

“It’ll do me,” I assured him. “I’m not shooting big game. I may not even use it. I’d just like to have it with me in case I see something and feel like it.”

He hesitated. “Well, it’s against the rules. But you’re a responsible person.” He fitted it together and loaned it to me, a nine millimetre SIG, small and lightweight. It fitted snugly in the pocket of my three-quarter length winter coat. I had some familiarity with SIGs because the US army uses them, although not this model. When I left him I loaded it with six bullets.

I did not know where the Italians were so I couldn’t keep watch on them. However, I would keep watch on the Stakis estate, on the likelihood that this was their target. They would not hang around for long. They would want to act quickly. I knew it might all be a waste of time, but that is the nature of intelligence work. I had spent a good deal of time in the army in Germany keeping watch, often in the company of a man from the BIV, and it often turned out that we were following a false lead. Only rarely are you certain that you’ve got the right man. They never show you that in movies, the hours and hours of doing nothing but waiting, or waiting and watching, and then finding that there was nothing to wait for.

The road past the Stakis estate led up a small hill. I could go to the top, drive off the road and park under some trees, and watch unobserved. So early the next morning I sat there with a vacuum flask of coffee and some sandwiches watching, switching on the car radio between French-language Swiss, German-language Swiss, and French radio stations, noting their differences in style. Max’s pistol was in the glove compartment.

They came along the road at eleven o’clock, drove by slowly up the hill towards where I was parked, then turned and went back, driving slowly by the Stakis place again. I had guessed right. This was reconnaissance.

That night there was a heavy snowfall, the first heavy snowfall of the season, the hotel staff told me. In the morning there was about four inches of snow on the ground. I drove slowly and took my place by the top of the hill soon after breakfast. After listening to the news on the car radio, I found a German-Swiss station with a jazz programme. This time I did not have to wait long. It was the middle of John Coltrane’s version of
Street
Corner
Blues
when they came along the road. They turned off the road and stopped, facing the estate. They were conspicuous and I imagined that they did not intend to stay there long.

A few minutes later the gates opened and Sylvie drove out in her blue sports car. They must have known she was driving out; they had probably got somebody on the staff to tip them off. They turned into the road behind her and set off, and I set off after. They did not use two cars as they had when they tried to grab Ayolo. They drove past Sylvie and then skewed the car across the road, blocking her way. Then it was just as before.

As her car squelched to a stop, sliding a few feet forward in the snow, two men in balaclavas jumped out of the Land Cruiser. One man smashed the window next to the driver’s seat with a hammer and reached through the hole and opened the door. Then he leaned in, unbuckled the seat belt and pulled Sylvie out. She was screaming and struggling and the second man joined him. They dragged her off towards their car.

I stopped, took the pistol, got out and ran towards them, sloshing through the snow. I brandished the pistol in front of me and yelled, “Stop!” They turned and saw me. One of them let go of Sylvie, then took out a gun, turned to face me, held it in both hands and took aim. I could not see his face behind his balaclava but from his build I was sure that he was the man who had pointed a gun at me the last time. It was a repeat of that scene, except this time I could shoot back.

I threw myself down face forward in the snow. I am not sure of the exact sequence of events that followed. I am pretty sure that he fired first. I heard the sound reverberating in the thin mountain air. He must have missed me. I raised myself up with my elbows in the snow and fired from a prone position. I later found that I had fired three times. He fell backwards.

The other man was still holding Sylvie Now he let go of her and ran over crying out, “
Bruno
,
fratello
mio
!” and knelt over the body, sobbing. I got up and ran over to him, holding my pistol at the ready. He picked up Bruno’s gun, still sobbing, still on his knees. I made sure I was still pointing my gun at him.

After a few steps my left leg gave way. I fell down and scrambled up again. The man was still holding Bruno’s gun. He looked at me charging towards him, dropped the gun, and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

My left leg gave way again and I fell into the snow once more but kept my pistol pointed. I picked myself up and saw a trail of blood behind me in the snow. I looked down and my left shoe was covered in blood. Evidently, I had been hit in the foot. I hobbled over towards them. I still felt no pain. That came later.

The driver of the Land Cruiser leaned out and shouted something to the other two. He repeated it, and when neither responded he drove off rapidly, evidently deciding to save his own skin if they would not come with him. Bruno was lying in the snow with blood bubbling out of his mouth. It was a horrible sight. His brother was kneeling beside him. I stood, pointing my pistol at them, just in case.

Soon the police arrived and an ambulance. There were a few houses around and someone must have called them. I quickly put my gun back in my pocket. I did not know how the police would react to a strange man holding another at gun point. I began feeling the pain now. They took Bruno into the ambulance first. Then they took me into the ambulance, while I explained to the police that I had foiled a kidnapping.