Private Berlin (15 page)

“HAUPTKOMMISSAR DIETRICH?” MATTIE said into her cell phone. She was standing in the hallway of Greta Amsel’s apartment.

“Who is this?” Dietrich replied in a thick, slow voice.

“It’s Mattie Engel,” she said. “There’s been another murder.”

There was a long silence before Dietrich said, “Who? Where?”

“A childhood friend of Chris’s,” she said. “Greta Amsel. They lived in an orphanage together near Halle.”

Another long silence. “And she’s dead?”

“We just found her in her apartment. We haven’t touched a thing. I think we saw the killer. He was posing as a plumber. He
was leaving as we arrived.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“No,” she admitted.

Dietrich’s third silence was the longest. She thought she heard him drinking something. “Call Inspector Weigel,” he said at
last. “Have her bring in a forensics team and three Kripo detectives to canvass the building. I’ll see to this all tomorrow
around noon.”

Mattie hesitated, incredulous. “Tomorrow? With all due respect, Hauptkommissar, I think you should come here right now and
listen to what we’ve found. Another of Chris’s childhood friends is missing.”

The high commissar breathed heavily in response, almost laboring.

Then he said, “Frau Engel, I must confess to you that it would be unprofessional of me to be at a crime scene in my current
state. I am to bury my father in the morning, and I am drunk and well on the way to being drunker. You’ll have to call Weigel.
I’ve left her in charge for the night. She’ll be helped by the rest of the Kripo homicide team.”

The phone clicked dead.

MY FRIENDS, I can’t help it. Two hours after the fact and I’m still shaking like a calf about to become veal. The smell of flesh burning
and bacon still poisons my nose. The grease burn on my right cheek throbs.

And thoughts crowd my head.

I was in Greta’s apartment barely twelve minutes.

I left the fans running.

It should have been days until her body was discovered.

But then I saw Mattie Engel and the big bald guy. And ever since then my mind’s been throttled with questions: How could they
have found Greta? I took all the files from the archives. What do they know? What did Christoph tell them before he came after
me?

For the first time in nearly twenty-five years, I feel almost overwhelmed by the thought that my mask, my invisibility, might
be weakening.

Then I shake it off. They’ll find nothing that will link to the Invisible Man.

But I am, above all, a realist. I can clearly see now that I have limited time in which to fully erase my past. Three other
children are still unaccounted for.

Just three and I’ll be free.

Like it or not, my friends, tomorrow is shaping up to be a busy, busy day.

IT WAS NEARLY eleven by the time Burkhart turned onto Mattie’s street.

They’d been at the Amsel crime scene for hours, watching Inspector Weigel and the team of Kripo investigators and crime scene
specialists document the body and the apartment.

Weigel had seemed overwhelmed to be in charge of an investigation, even if it was only for one night, but she’d listened attentively
and took copious notes when they gave their statement.

Mattie had held nothing back. She told Weigel about the files stolen from the archives, Hariat Ledwig’s assertion that something
terrible had happened to Chris and his friends, and the missing-persons report on Ilse Frei.

Weigel had duly noted all of it before saying, “So you’re saying that there’s no connection between the deceased and Hermann
Krüger?”

“I don’t know.”

Weigel looked uncomfortable as she said, “This afternoon, the higher-ups put a lot of pressure on the Hauptkommissar about
Agnes Krüger’s murder. They think that is the key to all of this. Dietrich thinks so too.”

Burkhart said, “You mean it’s more high-profile than, say, a nurse’s death?”

Weigel appeared even more torn, but then she nodded and told them that she had talked with Hermann Krüger’s secretary in person.
Weigel had gotten the secretary to admit that five days before, the billionaire told her he was going to be off on personal
business for the next week, and then quite simply he’d vanished. Berlin Kripo had intelligence specialists trying to track
his finances, but so far they were as shadowy as the man.

No matter what had happened to Greta Amsel, Weigel believed the focus of the official investigation would be on Krüger until
he was found and cleared.

“It’s the six children,” Mattie insisted to Burkhart as he pulled up in front of her apartment building. “They’re the key,
not Hermann Krüger.”

“I agree,” Burkhart said. “But I can see how someone like Agnes Krüger being slain in broad daylight would have a way of distracting
attention.”

“We have to find the other children from Waisenhaus 44. We have to warn them.”

“Gabriel said he was staying at the office until he found them,” Burkhart said.

Mattie nodded, but she felt insanely frustrated that they’d been so close to saving Greta Amsel. The killer had walked right
by them, and then driven right by them!

She put her hand on the door handle and was about to pull it, when she stopped and looked at Burkhart. “Have you eaten anything?”

“Not since lunch,” he admitted.

“Feel like a home-cooked meal?”

“You’re gonna cook after the day you had?” Burkhart asked.

“My aunt does the cooking. When I get home this late, I warm it up.”

CASSIANO ROARED IN Portuguese when his wife dropped her coat in the video Brecht had shot of the entrance to Pavel’s hotel room.

Hertha Berlin’s star striker leaped from his chair in the team’s conference room and lunged toward the door, shouting like
a wild man.

Brecht grabbed the Brazilian and said something forcefully in his language. For a second Morgan thought Cassiano was going
to pulverize Brecht, but then the striker softened and sat back down in his chair.

“What was he yelling?” demanded the team’s general manager, Klaus Bremen, who sat next to the coach, Sig Mueller.

Brecht said, “He wanted to get a machete, cut off Pavel’s balls, and shove them down Perfecta’s throat until she suffocated.
I told him it was a bad idea for someone bound for the World Cup.”

“So he’s saying he had no idea about this?” the coach asked. “Or about the betting?”

Brecht posed the question in Portuguese. Cassiano shook his head.

“Ask him about those games where he played horribly,” Morgan said.

Brecht did so and the Brazilian began to shout at Morgan.

Brecht said, “He says he told you yesterday, he was sick. He did not take a dive and would like to slap you for saying so
right after he found out his wife was having sexy-time with some old Russian bastard.”

Morgan said nothing.

Cassiano looked at his coach and babbled in Portuguese.

“You believe me, yes, Sig?” Brecht translated.

Bremen, the general manager, replied, “It’s not a matter of belief, Cassiano. We need proof you’re not involved.”

After Brecht told Cassiano so in Portuguese, the Brazilian began to shout again indignantly.

“How can I do this?” Brecht translated. “My wife is a whore and I am the victim of rumors. How can I prove that I am clean?”

“Tell him to give us a hair sample,” Morgan said. “Private will take care of the rest.”

“MOMMY!” NIKLAS CRIED when Mattie opened the door to the apartment.

Her son was in his pajamas and ran to her.

She took him up in her arms, scolding, “What are you doing up so late?”

Aunt Cäcilia came behind her wearing her robe and curlers. “He wouldn’t listen. He’s been a crazy man, bouncing off the walls
since that game ended, wanting to wait up and tell you all about it.”

“Cassiano was unbelievable!” Niklas exulted. “He scored three. Three!”

Burkhart appeared in the doorway looking somewhat awkward.

Mattie smiled. “Niklas, Aunt C, this is Herr Burkhart. He works at Private too.”

Aunt Cäcilia blushed, pulled her robe tighter, and complained, “Ohhh, Mattie, I didn’t know you were bringing company home.”

“He drove me home and we both realized we were starving.”

That broke whatever spell Burkhart’s arrival had held over her aunt, who turned and bustled toward the kitchen. “I have cold
sausages, potato pancakes, and homemade applesauce. And cold beer. Give me just a minute!”

“Say hello, Niklas,” Mattie said, setting down her son, who appeared shy.

Burkhart crouched and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Niklas.”

Niklas hesitated and then shook it, saying, “You’re big.”

“I know. You will be too someday.”

“Am I gonna lose my hair too?”

“Niklas!” Mattie scolded.

But Burkhart just laughed. “Being bald has nothing to do with being big, Niklas. Being bald is a state of mind.”

Mattie grinned. The tension of the day faded toward exhaustion. “I’ve got to get him to bed.”

“Sure,” Burkhart said. “Maybe I better go?”

“No, no, my aunt would not hear of it. Someone going hungry is a major injustice with her.”

“I heard that!” Aunt Cäcilia shouted from the kitchen.

Mattie put her hand on Niklas’s shoulder and said, “Say good night.”

“Good night, Herr Burkhart,” Niklas said.

“You can call me Tom.”

Niklas grinned and took his mother’s hand and they went to his room. She tucked him into bed.

Niklas said, “Are you and Tom going to catch whoever killed Chris?”

“Most definitely.”

Mattie kissed him on the forehead. “Get some sleep, my little man.”

“Tom said I’m going to be big.”

“He did, didn’t he?”

She went to the door.

“Mommy?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not going to get killed trying to find out who did it, are you?”

Mattie turned and went straight back to him and wrapped her arms around him. “No. I’m going to be safe and here with you until
you’re as big as Burkhart is.”

Niklas hugged her fiercely. “I love you, Mommy.”

Mattie started to tear up. “I love you too, Nicky. More than you can know.”

FRIENDS, FELLOW BERLINERS, it’s not quite six in the morning, and I’m already on the road in the ML500. I have a long drive in front of me, four and
a half hours to Frankfurt am Main if traffic on the autobahn cooperates.

Can there be a better time to hear a story than over a long stretch of road? I confess I love those audiobooks, don’t you?

Sit back, now, and listen closely:

As I indicated once before, two years after the wall fell, well after the surgeries in Africa, it took me a month to locate
the bitch that bore me.

She was living in the sleepy hamlet of Biedenkopf near the Rothaargebirge Nature Park in west central Germany.

Do you know the place?

It doesn’t matter. Suffice it to say that my mother lived alone in a cottage on the outskirts of a rural village threatened
by forest.

On a chill, dark, November night, I knocked at her door.

“Who’s there?” came a tremulous response.

“It is me, mother,” I said, and I repeated the name she’d given me at birth.

After a moment’s hesitation, the wooden door opened slowly, revealing an old, frail woman I almost did not recognize.

She was carrying an old Luger, which she pointed at me suspiciously.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“A lover of masks, Mother,” I said, and made that clicking noise in my throat. “Don Giovanni’s most of all.”

Her eyes peeled wide, and her mouth sagged open in sheer disbelief as her pistol slowly lowered. “Is it really you?”

“Of course,” I said. “Do you still have that old
Papierkrattler
mask?”

“They told me you died in Hohenschönhausen Prison!” she cried and threw herself at me, weeping.

I caught her as any loving son would. “They told me you died there too.”

She pushed back in horror. “No!”

“Yes.”

“But they said you’d be told I went into the West.”

“They said many things,” I replied. “I didn’t believe any of it.”

“And I should not have. Come in! Come in out of the cold!”

I smiled dutifully at her mothering, followed her inside, and shut the door behind me.

My mother’s living area was a simple place with an overstuffed reading chair and a lamp and a fire burning in a wood stove.
There were no photographs, which made my mission seem all the easier.

She was looking at me in wonder and joy again. “I did not recognize you.”

“It’s been too long,” I said.

Timidly, she said, “Your father is dead, yes?”

“Five years now.”

“I’d heard that,” she said with a pained expression. “But I guess all things must pass,” she went on, and then swallowed and
looked at me pleadingly. “Do you forgive me?”

I could not control my reaction.

My right hand shot out of its own accord and grabbed my dear mother by the throat. I lifted her dangling, bug-eyed, and choking
into the air.

“As a matter of fact, Mother,” I said, “I can honestly say I will never, ever forgive you for leaving me.”

PRIVATE’S CORPORATE JET was a sleek Gulfstream G650, the gold standard in business aviation. At nine forty-five that morning, the jet’s landing gear
descended in anticipation of landing at Frankfurt am Main airport.

Mattie finished her coffee and handed it to the steward, and then looked at the front page of the
Berliner Morgenpost.
The newspaper was plastered with stories about Agnes Krüger’s murder and Hermann Krüger’s disappearing act.

Berlin Kripo was executing a search warrant on his offices and all his known residences in the city. The price of Krüger Industries
stocks had fallen in overseas trading. At the same time, Olle Larsson, the Swedish financier, had filed documents that indicated
he’d increased his position in Krüger Industries from 5 to 10 percent.

Mattie shook her head, puzzled, trying to stitch it all together. Was Krüger involved? Had he somehow known Chris when he
was a child? Krüger was born in East Germany, wasn’t he?

She turned to look at Burkhart. The counterterrorism expert was in the tan leather captain’s chair opposite her. His eyes
were closed—his great shaved head lolled to the right—and his breath came slow and rhythmic.

Mattie decided that she might have underestimated Burkhart. After shutting off Niklas’s light, she’d gone back to the kitchen
and found Aunt Cäcilia laughing and Burkhart grinning, a plate of sausages and potato pancakes before him.

“He’s funny,” Aunt Cäcilia said.

“She’s a great cook,” Burkhart said, sipping his beer.

“I know that,” Mattie said, taking her own plate and beer.

They’d talked and eaten for almost an hour. Burkhart was funny and entertaining in a mordant way, a quality she attributed
to the line of work he’d been in prior to joining Private Berlin.

He thanked Aunt Cäcilia twice after he’d finished, and then Mattie saw him to the door.

“That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” Burkhart said. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He smiled and said, “I’ll see you at the meeting, Engel?”

“Call me Mattie. And I’ll be there,” she promised and shut the door.

Burkhart
was
a good guy. But she didn’t think of him as she went to bed. All she could see as she plunged toward sleep were images of
Chris and Greta Amsel walking into Waisenhaus 44.

Her cell phone rang at 6:20 a.m., less than six hours after she’d gone to sleep. Dr. Gabriel had found another orphan. His
real name was Artur Becker. He’d changed it to Artur Jaeger. He was a design engineer for BMW in Munich.

Mattie called BMW security, looking for a phone number for Jaeger, but was told that he had gone to the IAA Motor Show in
Frankfurt am Main, and the company had a policy against disclosing personal cell phone numbers. But Mattie insisted that Jaeger
could be in danger, and the security person on duty relented.

Mattie called the number immediately. Jaeger answered groggily. She identified herself and asked if his real name was Artur
Becker.

A pause. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. My name is Jaeger.”

“Please, sir, I’m trying to warn you about—”

Jaeger almost screamed at her, “I don’t know anyone named Artur Becker!”

“I think you do, and other orphans,” she said. “You’re all in—”

“This is a sick, sick joke,” he said, and hung up.

She tried him back several times but got his voice mail. She left a detailed message, describing what had happened to Greta
Amsel and to please call her back. Then in frustration she called Morgan, who told her to take the jet to Frankfurt.

Finally she had called Burkhart, and he’d met her at the corporate terminal.

She reached over and tapped him on the forearm. He startled and jerked awake.

“We’re landing,” she said.

Burkhart yawned. “Thanks. How far to the auto show?”

“Fifteen-minute drive, tops,” Mattie said as the jet touched down.

He sat up straighter, all business, and checked his watch, and his face turned grim. “Let’s hope we get there in time.”