Brandenburg (33 page)

“Then the Germans came again. His relatives were taken away. My father was caught in a roundup, and they sent him to Dachau, then to Belsen. The others were sent to the ovens. My father survived, but he could never forget what had happened to his parents and sister.”

He lay silent in the darkness, and he could hear Erica breathing. He couldn’t tell if she was crying, and he didn’t speak or make a
sound. It was such a long-ago pain that he couldn’t cry, and all he could do was think of his father.

It seemed the silence went on forever in the darkness, and it was a long time before her hand came to touch his face. But Erica said nothing. There was nothing to say.

27

ASUNCIÓN. SUNDAY, DECEMBER 18, 2:45 P.M.

Thick, juicy steaks and fat sausages sizzled on the charcoal barbecue, and sunlight washed the garden.

Vellares Sanchez gazed down with no appetite at one of the slabs of meat as he speared it with a fork, turned it over to reveal the pink and bloodied rare underneath. Many things were bothering him. Many things, but all connected to one thing.

The face of Rudi Hernandez flashed before his eyes. Lying on the morgue slab, white sheet pulled back, wounds uncovered.

Sanchez grimaced and looked away from the unappetizing meat toward the sunlit garden. Clusters of neighbors, friends, and relatives stood chatting, drinks in hand. A special day. Maria, his youngest daughter, had made her Communion.

Innocent girls in white Communion frocks and boys in ill-fitting suits sipped lemonade and ate chocolate cake and traipsed about the lawn, bored now that the ceremony was over. He saw Maria wave at him and smile. Sanchez waved and smiled back.

The girl was very pretty, a tribute to her mother’s good looks. One day the boys would be falling over themselves to catch her eye. But not yet. Innocence was to be savored.

The girl came up to him, flouncing her white frock. “Is the food ready yet, Papa? I’m hungry.”

Sanchez patted her head of dark, curly hair. “Not yet, my sweet.” He saw his wife, Rosario, coming toward him from the patio. She had a frown on her face.

He tapped his daughter’s shoulder. “Do Papa a favor, precious. Go see if everyone is okay for drinks.”

The girl nodded and skipped away.

Rosario came up beside him, still frowning. “I thought this was your day off.”

“It is.”

“Is everything okay?”

He nodded. “The food’s almost ready.”

“I didn’t mean the food. Detective Cavales is inside. I asked him to join us, but he said no. He’d rather speak to you in private.”

“Then I had better see him. Do me a favor. Take care of the steaks.”

His wife knit her brow. “And I thought you were going to be free today.”

“So did I.” He kissed her cheek. “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”

“Nor his wife’s. But you should have told me that before you asked me to marry you.”

“And risk losing such a beautiful woman?”

She smiled back at him, picked up two cans of beer from the buffet table, and handed them to her husband.

“Take one in to Cavales. He looks as though he could do with a drink.”

He took the beers, crossed to the patio, and stepped inside. The house was cool after the heat of the garden. He crossed to where the detective stood and handed him the beer.

“Compliments of Rosario. She said you looked like you needed one.”

Cavales nodded. “It’s hot.” He looked toward the lawn. “Nice day for a barbecue.”

“Maria’s Communion,” Sanchez explained. Cavales was single. No ties. No responsibilities. But a good cop. Ambitious, in a quiet way. And thorough.

“So,” Sanchez said finally, “what brings you to this neck of the woods on my one day off? It’s not a social call.”

Cavales shook his head. He appeared tired. Like Sanchez, he had been working hard. Days and late evenings working on the case.

“I’ve been over at Tsarkin’s house again.”

Sanchez sipped the cold beer. “Go on.”

“I know we searched it three, maybe four times and found nothing.”

Sanchez smiled. “But you wanted to pick over the bones?”

Cavales nodded. “Something like that.”

“So what did you find that the rest of us couldn’t?”

“What makes you think I found something?”

“You see enough of my face at the office. And I’m not such an attractive man.”

Cavales smiled. “You’re right.”

“So, tell me.”

“I went through all the rooms again. Top to bottom. Just in case we missed something.” Cavales paused. “We did.”

“And what did we miss?”

“Photographs.”

Sanchez blinked. “Explain.”

“Photographs. Everybody keeps them. Albums. Of friends. Acquaintances. Relatives.”

Sanchez shook his head. “There were none. I remember. Except one. A photograph of Tsarkin himself. On a dressing table in his bedroom.”

“That’s what I mean. There were no other photographs besides the one in the bedroom,” Cavales said quietly. “Old people. They always got photographs.”

Sanchez smiled. The man had a perceptive mind. “Go on.”

“I spoke to Tsarkin’s butler about it. He was very uncomfortable when I mentioned the photographs. Like he had something to hide.”

“And did he?”

“You bet.” Cavales put down his beer and lit a cigarette, offered one to Sanchez, who accepted. “I told him if there was anything he hadn’t told us, he could be in big trouble. I told him I’d take him down to the station. He got upset. Said he’d done nothing wrong.”

“But what had he done?”

“He said the day after Tsarkin committed suicide, and before we thoroughly searched the property, a man came to the house. An acquaintance of Tsarkin’s, a businessman. He asked what the police had done and wanted to know if there were any papers left behind by Tsarkin. When the butler said no, he said he wanted to look just in case. The butler protested, but the man persuaded him it might be better if he cooperated.”

“This man threatened him?”

Cavales shrugged. “Implied, rather than outright.”

“Continue.”

“He searched the house, then took away some photograph albums Tsarkin kept.”

“And?”

“That’s it. He also ordered the butler to tell no one what he’d done.”

Sanchez sighed, sat on the edge of the chair by the window. “Did you get a name?”

Cavales smiled and nodded. “After a little friendly persuasion.”

“The name?”

“Franz Lieber.”

“Who is he?”

“All I know right now is that he was an acquaintance of Tsarkin’s. But the name’s obviously German.”

Sanchez glanced toward the sunlit gardens and the cheerful knots of visitors. Maria was comparing dresses with another girl. His wife stood among a circle of female friends, laughing. He loved that woman, loved her to distraction. Many times he wished he weren’t a cop, had chosen a different vocation so that he could spend more time with his family.

He turned to Cavales. “Give me an hour. I’ll meet you at the office. I want Lieber’s address and information on his background.”

“I’m checking already. Two of the day shift are working on it.”

Sanchez nodded. “An hour then.”

Cavales left quietly without finishing his beer; Sanchez moved closer to the window.

Sunshine swamped the lawn. The sound of laughter reached him. A day to enjoy. Rosario wouldn’t like it if he left, but he had work to do. He checked his watch; half an hour, then he’d drive to the office.

He stubbed out his cigarette and went to rejoin his guests.

4:35 P.M.

The pickup bar wasn’t far from the Plaza Uruguaya.

Despite its shabby exterior, inside the décor was sumptuous. Coral-blue stucco walls, expensive cotton-print drapes. Upstairs were private rooms with silk-sheeted beds. Saunas and steaming showers for clients.

The women were equally attractive, reputedly the prettiest in Asunción. And the most expensive.

Lieber and his male companion sipped their champagne as they enjoyed the array of gorgeous women seated around the bar. Two dusky-skinned beauties approached.

Lieber found his wallet, peeled off some notes. “Not now, later, after we’ve discussed our business.”

The women smiled, took the money, blowing departing kisses as they left their customers in peace, for now.

“Well, Pablo . . . happy?”

The man opposite Lieber was small, wiry, and seedy-looking. His name was Pablo Arcades. For ten of his thirty-five years he had been a police officer, an invaluable acquaintance of Lieber’s. Especially since the man had two universal vices: money and women. As vices, they were weaknesses to be exploited.

Arcades grinned, his weasel eyes fixed on the women’s curvy, retreating figures.

“You know me. I could hang out in places like this all day. You brought the money?”

“Afterward. First, let’s talk.”

6:02 P.M.

Lieber drove back through the darkening Asunción streets.

He slammed shut his mobile phone after he made the call. He remembered the woman’s name from the list. He verified that. Yes. She was one of those in the web. She would need to be contacted as a matter of urgency, of that much Lieber was certain. And decisions would need to be made: take her out of the web or keep her in.

The rest of Arcades’s information he would pass on. It would have to be acted on at once, Volkmann and Sanchez dealt with. Volkmann’s part he couldn’t understand: a British DSE officer, and not German. If anything, it should have been German. Lieber shook his head in confusion; the woman would be able to explain. He didn’t understand why she hadn’t been contacted before now. What was she up to?

In his mind he went through the checklist of what needed to be done. First contact security, then Kruger in Mexico City, to fill them in. There was business to be discussed with old Haider and the Brazilian, Ernesto. And there would be visitors, old faces calling to pay their respects, and offering their advice for the days ahead.

Lieber turned the Mercedes into the driveway of his house, tires skewing the gravel.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of two men standing behind the open gates. Lieber, startled by their presence, was about to slam on the brakes when he saw the lights were on in the porch. Two more men stood there, a white car parked outside the front door.

Panic gripped him as he came to a sharp halt in front of the car.

Lieber climbed out warily as the two men came quickly forward.

“What’s going on? Who are you?” Lieber demanded.

One of the two was a large, hulking man, his grubby suit loose on his oversized body.

“Señor Lieber, I presume?”

Lieber said nothing.

The big man smiled thinly. “My name’s Sanchez. Captain Vellares Sanchez.”

28

ASUNCIÓN. 6:32 P.M.

Every light inside the house appeared to be on, the mestizo butler nowhere to be seen.

They were in the study. The two detectives and Lieber. The big detective smoked a cigarette as his companion sifted through the contents of Lieber’s walnut desk. The locks had been forced; papers and documents lay scattered on the floor.

Lieber looked at the big detective palely. “You have no right . . .”

“Señor, I have every right.”

“May I remind you that I am a personal friend of the police commissioner’s . . .”

“And might I remind you that my search warrant is in order.”

Lieber examined the warrant, signed by a magistrate. “If you’d only tell me what it is you’re looking for . . . ?”

“I told you already.”

“I don’t know what photographs you’re talking about. All I know
is that my property has been damaged. And that this is a flagrant abuse of—”

“Please, señor. Spare me.” The hooded, sleepy eyes regarded Lieber carefully. “If you simply tell us where the photograph albums are, it would help matters.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sanchez ignored the faked innocence on Lieber’s face. “As I explained already, they were taken from the house of a friend of yours the day after he killed himself. Tsarkin’s butler already told us. Really, señor, you’re wasting my time.”