The Safety Net (41 page)

He cursed with rage on hearing, from the landlady of all people, that they had actually caught Beverloh in Istanbul, and that he was to phone Dollmer immediately—Dollmer having of course stolen a march on him by holding the press conference without him. The landlady had heard the press conference on the radio and said something about “thanks to some clues pointing to certain purchases, the result of our own deductions.”

Damn it all, there were such things as transceivers, as helicopters, but apparently Dollmer hadn’t wanted to share these juicy spoils with anybody, yet he had laughed at his suggestion about possible shoe purchases. He cursed openly and copiously when Dollmer went on to tell him about the old Tolms’ crazy idea: that meant at least fifty men for that godforsaken hole. The entire scene might blow wide open, there would be crowds of people, and if to top it all the old couple should turn up, there would be—would be a scandal, and those two nice old characters would be ruined. “That has to be stopped, Mr. Dollmer,” he said, “if necessary by force—with roadblocks, by arranging a minor accident—somehow or other that
must
be stopped. If you can’t get anywhere by reasoning.”

“Are you suggesting I arrest him?” Dollmer shouted.

“No, I told you—roadblocks, arrange for a few accidents,
bashed cars making the road impassable.”

“Then he’ll simply walk there.…”

“But he’ll get there too late, the funeral will be over. As it is, I have to cancel all the training courses, call back many of the men from leave, and I’m not even thinking of the problems for the police, we’re used to those, I’m thinking of the political consequences.…”

“Mind you, they’ve known Beverloh from infancy, he was almost like a son to them, at least for many years. You’re forgetting something again, my dear Holzpuke … are you listening? You’re forgetting that letter! What would be worse politically: for him to receive the letter and publish it, or for him to get a bee in his bonnet and go to the wrong funeral? The letter, if he publishes it—and he wouldn’t hesitate—will affect us all, everyone involved: the wrong funeral will only affect him. Stabski completely agrees with me, we’ve discussed it from every possible angle, and once it becomes known that the letter exists it won’t take long for its contents to become public. Well, what do you say?”

“Even so I would see to it that a few wrecks get hopelessly entangled on all the access roads. Of course they’ll have to be supplied with license plates. In any event I’ll cancel all the training courses. Well, what do you say to shoe size thirty-eight?”

“Terrific, practically a stroke of genius. It won’t pass without leaving its mark on your career. But there’s one thing, I believe, we can forget about now: there’ll be no bucket trip.”

“I’m not so sure about that. After all, she did get away, and there are still the sympathizers.”

He started several times to call the manor house, kept sighing, picking up the receiver, replacing it, had to force himself to dial, and was startled when he heard her voice saying: “Yes?” He was silent for a few seconds, until she said: “Who is it, please—who’s there?” He diffidently gave his name, adding: “Don’t be alarmed—you can imagine what I’m calling about.…”

“Yes, I can—but we won’t succumb to your blandishments either. No, my dear Mr. Holzpuke, you have become a good companion to us—I’m only interested in one thing: am I
now going to get my reward? You know, because of the shoes, which, you must admit—yes, it’s odd, I mourn his death but I’m not sad about it—can you understand that? And the shoes, the reward—am I going to get it?”

Oh damn, he thought, I mustn’t cry. He was close to it, he had heard it all, all the things the old couple had whispered to each other like lovers, about adultery and no adultery, about Madonnas and children. And every single argument, even those one called or might have called human, was on his side. He too would never forget shoe size 38, and the plain fact was that he was fond of these two old people, more so of him than of her, and if he discounted all the political and police angles he found himself thinking that it was downright fantastic for them to be going to that funeral. He already regretted having given Dollmer the tip about the roadblocks. He wouldn’t put it past Dollmer to use that trick anyway and later—in front of Stabski and elsewhere—claim the credit for it. Yet they knew it wouldn’t be effective, for then the old man would insist on the letter, and that would mean partial if not total disaster: all that stuff in it about nuclear power stations, lobbying, corruption, forecasts for the future, growth. And the old man did still own his newspaper. That meant a score of publications that might, for once, print something inopportune—might.

“Are you still there? Or are you too ashamed?”

“I am very much ashamed, dear Mrs. Tolm—and I’d rather not mention at this point something that I might mention: necessity—no, I’d rather not. I’m only ashamed about the reward—rewards are only for voluntary information, not for involuntary.…”

“Are we going to see you here tomorrow?”

“No, I won’t be able to get away. But we’ll meet the day after. I won’t duck out, forgive me.…”

“Will you do me a favor?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Give them a call in Hubreichen. Tell them no one must leave the house, no one, not even any of the guests. Zummerling is lying in wait.”

In the café, as he was helping her off with her coat, Helga grasped his hand and said: “It’s a good thing we’re going to be separated for the next three weeks. The training course in Strüderbeken will do you good, me too. I’ve packed all your things.”

“You’ll have to unpack them again, Helga dear, there’s not going to be any training course. Haven’t you been listening to the news?”

He ordered tea and coffee, asked for the menu, took the lighter from Helga and lit her cigarette, took a cigarette himself from the package. “You must be in a bad way if you’re starting to smoke—yes, of course I’ve heard the news. They caught that fellow Beverloh, he’s dead, and the woman has gone underground. Where d’you think the boy can be?”

“They sent the boy back, the woman will soon turn up again. That all indicates some imminent action, and it wasn’t only those two, you know—it’s a far-reaching network, Helga, a burrow with all kinds of side passages, secret passages. I only hope they cancel Strüderbeken early enough and don’t get us
up in the middle of the night again.”

He broke off, waited until the waitress had served the coffee and tea. “Yes, a bit of jogging, a bit of football, target practice, and some theory—maybe that would have done me good, maybe. But at this time of year the heath around Strüderbeken isn’t all that attractive, the woods are damp and chilly, and bare. I’d rather have some proper leave, not go away, just stay home. Get some sleep, have a heart-to-heart with Bernhard, maybe go to the movies, argue with Karl—talk to you. What did you mean when you said my training course would do you good too?”

“To be really separated from you for once, not the way it’s been lately: with you here yet farther away, much farther away, than if you were in Africa. Not to have to talk, talk. You’re kidding yourself: she’s in you, and you’re in her, and when I say that I don’t mean the child she’s expecting, and if it weren’t for our son, for Bernhard, wouldn’t you have taken off with her long ago? Then I would cease to count, and very quickly too. No, I’d rather leave your things packed—maybe you’ll need them if you change your mind and go away with her.” She smiled when he stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette. He handed her the menu.

“Would you like something to eat?”

“No thanks, would you?”

“No.” He took back the menu and laid it beside his glass of tea. “Separate, did you say?”

“Yes. Perhaps you should live with her for a while to find out that you can’t live with her. You’re dreaming all the time, aren’t you, of being with her?”

“Yes,” he said—yes, and thought of Sabine’s wet hair when she had brought him some food that night and kissed him and kissed him again, over and over again, and he had put the empty bowl down on the windowsill before the relief officer had arrived. “Yes, and you may well laugh—it will break my heart when I think of you, not only when I think of Bernhard—and when I have to quit the service.…”

“I won’t laugh, I do know you a little bit—and I know that you’ll go away with her or follow her.”

“And do you know if I’ll come back?”

“No, I don’t know that, but of course I’m hoping you will. Yes, that’s what I’m hoping. I suppose you’re scared of actually doing it?”

“Yes, I am, but I’ll do it. I’m worried, though—I’m worried about our debts, and what am I to do when I have to quit the service, when I have to get out of the police?”

“Well, one thing’s certain, and you mustn’t mind my saying it: you probably won’t have to support us. It’s funny, but I can’t be angry with her, she has such a pleasant voice and she’s so happy with her little girl. I’ll get a job, stay at Monka’s for a while, there’s plenty of work there, and Bernhard will be happy there. And you—don’t you dare leave the police! I’ll go to Holzpuke, to Dollmer, I’ll even go to Stabski if I have to—after all, that standing around beside swimming pools, at parties, and in shoe stores—you’re not the only one to blame, if you’re to blame at all. No. The point is, I married a policeman, and if this policeman comes back to me,
if
, I want him to remain a policeman. Ask them to put you in the shark department, if there is such a thing—I mean, to kill those money sharks who are skinning us alive. Oh, Hubert, if you’re going, go soon.”

“Yes,” he said, “I’ll go today. I’ll drive over there right now and take her away, after all I’m still her protector. I’ll leave the car in Hubreichen, you can pick it up there.”

He left the car in the driveway, helped Helga with her grocery bags. Bernhard came running toward him, holding out a slip of paper: “You’re to call this number, Dad.” He drew the boy with him toward the phone, put an arm around him as he dialed the number.

It was Lühler’s number; he had recognized it although he didn’t have, or want, much private contact with Lühler.

“You’ve probably heard already,” said Lühler.

“I can imagine,” he said. “The training course is off.”

“Right. Cemetery, and not Horrnauken but Hetzigrath. They want us to close off the whole place. Everything strictly hush-hush—top-secret funeral with top-secret participants, including the corpse. Special orders: uniform. Seven-thirty a.m. outside the village on the road to Tolmshoven. Holzpuke sends his regards. Dollmer himself will personally conduct the deployment in Hetzigrath, invisibly of course, probably from inside the town hall or from a helicopter. Quite a famous corpse—infamous too—not as a corpse but when he was alive. See you tomorrow. Training course not canceled, merely postponed.”

“I won’t be there—I’ll be far away … I …”

“What? Are you sick?”

“No … I’m just going away.…”

“With Helga and your boy?”

“No.”

“Alone?”

“No … tell Holzpuke to look for a replacement.…”

•   •   •

Helga had already carried the suitcase and the bag to the car and opened the trunk. “Your uniform is in there too,” she said, “I didn’t want to unpack it again”—she smiled—“maybe it’ll come in handy, you never know. And now I suppose you’d rather stay here, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I would—but I’m leaving.”

“Don’t make too much of it with Bernhard, don’t be too solemn about it. I’ll tell him some story about special duty, make it sound all mysterious.”

“Till the papers find out and the nature of this special duty becomes known. No, please don’t use that expression.”

He looked at her, her voice so unfamiliar, part bitter, part wistful with a hint of cynicism. “Don’t forget,” said Helga, “that it isn’t that simple, that easy, nor for her, either.”

He gave a wave to the boy, who was just coming out of the house, quickly got into the car, turned the ignition key, and drove off.

The tears wouldn’t come when she discovered the picture in the newspaper. The first thing she noticed was the shoeboxes lying around in tumbled heaps, some of them bullet-riddled, and on one of them she could still make out the printed 38; an official, obviously German, was bending down behind the shoeboxes over something that must have been Bev. Originally she had been determined to carry out all his instructions, except the very last one, to the letter, and she wondered whether it would be fair to give up now, so close to the target, whether she shouldn’t accord Bev a final honor, a final act of loyalty by proving to him—to the very grave, as it were—that his plan could be precisely carried out, and that all their security fuss was useless—would have been useless if she hadn’t been determined from the very outset
not
to carry out his final instruction. She would not place the bomb, the loaded bicycle, under their noses: instead, she would sound the All Clear.

Rain was falling onto the plastic roof of the snack stand in the
eastern outskirts of Enschede; she ordered another portion of croquettes, and some bread, helped herself to mustard, ordered another Coke. Only ten kilometers to Horrnauken, and she started to have some strange thoughts: was she to favor a German police officer or a Dutch one with the glory of nabbing her or of her surrender? She had read of cases where such triumphs had not turned out too well for the officers. In some cases the glory had gone to their heads and they had run amok in their private lives: excesses, porn, divorce. Besides, she wasn’t sure whether she would be able to explain the dangerous nature of the bicycle to a Dutch officer. They might think she was nuts and handle the bike carelessly, while a German security officer might have received the bucket warning and would know what it was all about.

So far everything had gone according to plan: the bicycle, identified by a blue ribbon tied to the saddle, had been standing as arranged in front of the main post office in Enschede, and it sent a little shiver down her spine to imagine how many secret helpers he must have had and that he had been in contact with all of them. Bev had specifically told her that it was Germans, not Dutch, who had booby-trapped the bike. “In case they catch you and make you talk. So don’t forget: Germans. So they can’t unload their jitters.”