Private Berlin (19 page)

AN HOUR LATER, Mattie sat in a state of shock on a rickety chair across a small table from Ilona Frei as she wound down her terrible story.

Wrung out from the telling, Ilona Frei’s voice had gone hoarse when she said: “That was the afternoon before the men came
and took us to Waisenhaus 44. It was also the last time I saw the slaughterhouse or Falk. I wanted to forget it, and forget
everything that had happened there. I could not get myself to go back later and look at it. Never. And for Chris to have gone
in there…and…”

She threw up her hands and fought back tears.

Mattie had been involved in police work for most of her adult life and had cynically believed she’d heard every sort of brutal
tale there was to tell. But none was even remotely like the horrific story she’d just heard, and for several moments she could
not utter a word. A heavy silence seized the room.

Ilona Frei studied Mattie, tears seeping past the corners of her mouth as she gripped her arms tightly. “I’ve never told anyone
about the slaughterhouse. You two are the first.”

Mattie glanced at Burkhart, who stood in the doorway looking skeptical. She knew instantly what he was thinking: Ilona Frei
was a schizophrenic. A narcotics addict. How much of what they’d just heard was real, and how much of it was an invention
of her disturbed mind?

Burkhart had checked the fire escape and the alley, but he’d seen nothing that could corroborate Ilona Frei’s claim that a
man had been outside her window, which had increased his skepticism.

But then Mattie thought of Chris’s nightmares and that haunted space he used to shield inside him. If Ilona Frei’s story was
true, it was certainly a big enough trauma to create a festering wound in even the strongest of men.

“Why was this never reported to the authorities?” asked Burkhart. “Why didn’t you tell your doctors?”

“Falk said he’d kill us,” Ilona Frei said. “We believed him. I believed him. And tonight he was true to his word, wasn’t he?”

“Did Greta Amsel believe him?” Burkhart asked.

Ilona Frei pushed her hair back from her face. “Greta? Why Greta?”

“She’s dead, too, Ilona,” Mattie said sadly. “And Artur.”

Ilona Frei’s lips stretched wide and her body began to sway and contort as if something were racking her muscles. “Then Ilse’s
dead too. Isn’t she?”

Mattie’s mind flashed on the image of the woman’s corpse in the subbasement of the slaughterhouse, but she did not have the
heart to tell her. “We don’t know…”

“He’s killed her and he’s going to kill me,” Ilona Frei whined. “That
was
him at the window. Of course it was. I’m one of the last! He’s got to kill me!”

“We are not going to let that happen,” Mattie said, reaching across for her hand. “Just calm down. We talked to one of the
girls who worked with your sister. She said Ilse heard him speak where she worked, is that right?”

Ilona Frei hugged herself, shivering as she nodded. “Falk has a distinctive voice. He makes these clicking noises in his throat
when he’s pleased. And he likes to finish sentences with this hum that rises to a question.
Hmmm?
”

“But that was thirty years ago,” Burkhart said. “How could she be sure?”

Ilona Frei glared at him. “You don’t forget someone like Falk. He’s burned into your brain.”

“Was that why you came to our office? To tell Chris that Falk was alive and Ilse was missing?” Mattie asked.

“I was petrified,” Ilona explained. “Chris was the only person I could turn to, the only one I knew who would believe me and
could do something about it.”

Burkhart said, “So Chris investigates, finds out it’s true, that Falk’s alive. He tracks Falk down, and follows him to the
slaughterhouse.”

“And Falk kills him,” Mattie said dully, feeling the haunted space in her own heart growing with every tortured beat.

MY FRIENDS, MY fellow Berliners, at this moment I’m sitting behind the wheel and tinted windows of my old Trabant 601 sedan.

Do you know the Trabant? The worker’s car?

No matter. My well-maintained Trabi is parked on Amsterdamer Strasse south of Ilona Frei’s apartment building. I’ve been here
almost half an hour and I’m starting to shiver in my sweaty clothes.

No police, I think. That’s good. A neighbor was probably in the hallway when I was on the fire escape, heard her scream, and…

I suddenly want to break something. No, I want to shatter it. No, pulverize it into dust.

My friends, Mattie Engel and Tom Burkhart just came out the front door of the apartment building, and they’re flanking Ilona
Frei.

They walk away from me heading north and instantly my confidence feels like it’s suffered a thousand razor cuts.

Has she talked? Will they believe her?

No, no, I tell myself. Ilona Frei is certifiably insane. The state says so. She hears voices. She has other personalities.
She’s a registered opiate freak, for God’s sake.

Even so, there’s an impulse shooting through me right now that wants to start the Trabi, haul ass down the street, and shoot
them all dead, right there on the sidewalk or in that BMW they’re climbing into.

A moment later, they pull out, still heading north.

I wait a few moments, cool down, and ultimately decide not to follow them.

I think I know where they might end up eventually tonight.

I’ll go there. I’ll be invisible.

I’ll wait for my chance to strike.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Mattie walked up to her own apartment door. Ilona Frei shuffled along uncertainly behind her with Burkhart bringing up the
rear.

As she fumbled for her keys, the odor of sautéed onions and meat came to her. So did Niklas’s voice as he chattered to Aunt
C about the possibility of Hertha Berlin and Cassiano becoming champions of the second division.

“You don’t want someone like me staying with your family,” Ilona Frei said somberly. “Especially if you’ve got kids. I might…”

“You might be surprised,” Mattie said. “In any case, you’re not staying anywhere else until this is over.”

“I need my meds in the morning,” Ilona said, scratching at her arms.

“We can arrange that,” Mattie said, and she unlocked and opened her door.

Ilona Frei followed Mattie into the apartment in a slow trudge. Burkhart closed the door behind him and turned the dead bolts.

As Mattie knew she would, her aunt Cäcilia welcomed Ilona Frei like an old friend caught in a storm. “Have you eaten?” she
asked.

“Smells real good,” Burkhart said, sniffing the air as Ilona shook her head.

“It was good, Tom,” Niklas announced after hugging his mother hello.

“
Maultaschen
with venison and onion stuffing,” Aunt C said, moving toward the kitchen. “But the noodles are already cold. I’ll fry them
and you can have them with sour cream and a beer, ya?”

“Uh…ya,” Burkhart said, rubbing at his stomach.

Ilona Frei still looked lost, and Mattie was trying to figure out what she could say to set the woman at some ease when Socrates
pranced into the room. Chris’s cat went straight to Ilona and rubbed against her legs.

“That’s Socrates,” Niklas said, reappraising the woman his mother had brought home to a late dinner. “He doesn’t usually like
new people.”

Mattie shook her head, saying, “It’s true. He was Chris’s.”

Socrates purred loudly and contentedly until a weak but growing smile crossed Ilona Frei’s face. She bent down and picked
up the cat. She sat in one of the chairs and rubbed Socrates’s belly as Niklas surged again into a high-spirited explanation
of why Cassiano was such a great striker.

Niklas’s argument was directed at Burkhart, who listened attentively and in total agreement while Mattie helped her aunt fry
the stuffed pasta crispy and golden.

Burkhart praised the fried
Maultaschen
as the best he’d ever had after eating the last one in the bowl. Ilona Frei ate only one, but she agreed with Burkhart’s
assessment of the meal, which pleased Aunt Cäcilia to no end.

After clearing the plates, Burkhart said to Mattie, “If you’ll give me a blanket and a pillow, I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”

Mattie frowned. “That’s not—”

“It is necessary,” Burkhart said firmly. “She’s one of the last two.”

“Last two of what?” Niklas asked.

Ilona Frei looked upset and Socrates jumped off her lap.

“She’s one of the last two really nice ladies we know,” Mattie said quickly, irritated with Burkhart. “Now off to bed, you.
I’ll be in to say good night in a minute.”

MATTIE KEPT HER irritation in check until Aunt C had taken Ilona Frei to show her where she could sleep and she’d heard Niklas’s bedroom door
shut.

She crossed her arms and faced the counterterrorism expert. “I try to shield Niklas as much as I can from what I do. I don’t
want to explain all the murders to him. It will frighten him. He’s only nine.”

Burkhart’s face fell. “You mean my line about Ilona being one of the two left?”

Mattie nodded. “He’s smart, but he’s also very sensitive.”

“I apologize,” Burkhart said sincerely. “It won’t happen again.” He paused. “He’s a good kid, you know. You’re doing something
very right with him.”

Mattie softened. “Thank you, Burkhart. It’s nice of you to say so.”

He hesitated. “His dad in the picture?”

She didn’t know whether she wanted to respond, but said, “No. Niklas’s father was someone inconsequential in my life, an ill-considered
fling that became the miracle that is my son. He wanted no part of Niklas, and I, frankly, wanted no part of him.”

“So you raised him alone?” Burkhart said. “That’s impressive, considering.”

“Aunt C and my mother helped until she passed,” Mattie said, feeling defensive. “And
considering
what?”

“Well, the job of course. I know how demanding it can be.”

Mattie’s shoulders fell. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Tell me,” Burkhart said.

She studied him, wondering whether to explain or let it lie. Something about his compassionate expression made her decision.

“I lost my position at Kripo because I refused to compromise when it came to Niklas,” Mattie said. “I won’t bore you with
the details, but one night when I should have been at a murder scene, I was, instead, home with him. He was very ill: a horrible
cough and fever. For that I was transferred to the press office and away from investigations. I sued the force. I lost.”

Burkhart’s eyebrows rose. “Is that what Dietrich meant when he first came on the case and said something about your reputation
preceding you?”

Mattie’s cheeks reddened. “Yes, I expect so. And speaking of the Hauptkommissar, I think it’s time to tell him everything
that happened today.”

Aunt C came into the living room with a blanket and pillows. “You sure you’ll be comfortable on that couch? Your legs will
hang off.”

Burkhart grinned and took the bedding from her. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good night, Burkhart,” Mattie said. “And thank you for staying.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

THE MOON WAS near full and glowed through a vent in the storm, casting Treptower Park in a pale light that threw dark shadows past the
statues of the kneeling Russian soldiers.

High Commissar Dietrich sat bow-backed amid those shadows on the stone steps of the memorial. He was drinking from a bottle
of vodka and staring blearily out over the graves of Stalin’s men toward the silhouette of the great Soviet warrior carrying
the German child.

Dietrich was recalling how he’d come here as a boy shortly after his mother’s death from pneumonia. He’d been no more than
six or seven. The colonel had brought him to these very steps.

His father had pointed across the graves toward the huge statue, saying: “Your mother is now like the heroes buried here,
Hans. And you, you are like that child cradled in that soldier’s arms. Do you understand?”

Dietrich had not understood. At that moment, he had felt only confusion and loss. And yet he had nodded at the colonel for
fear of disappointing him.

Sitting there in Treptower Park some forty-odd years later, the high commissar felt the same emotions whirl through him, and
anger, and desperation, and…

His cell phone rang. He thought about ignoring it but then dug it from the pocket of his coat. “Dietrich.”

“High Commissar,” Mattie said. “It’s—”

“I know who this is,” Dietrich grumbled. “Weigel called me two hours ago. She informed me of the murder of Herr Jaeger and
the fact that you and Herr Burkhart are wanted in Frankfurt on charges of grand theft auto and for questioning in regards
to that murder.”

“It’s irrelevant. We
know
who the killer is, High Commissar,” Mattie said.

Dietrich’s head snapped back.

“Hermann Krüger?” he asked, feeling much drunker than he had a minute ago.

“No,” Mattie said firmly. “His name is Falk. No first name yet. He’s the son of the man who ran the slaughterhouse in Ahrensfelde.
Have you been drinking again, sir?”

“I have,” Dietrich acknowledged. “I buried my father today. My last family.”

There was a silence on the phone before Mattie said, “I am sorry, sir. Should I take this information to Inspector Weigel?”

A war erupted inside the high commissar, part of him wanting to push it all Weigel’s way, but his insatiable curiosity got
the better of him. “No. Tell me.”

Clouds closed in on the moon, leaving Dietrich and the war memorial in darkness save a saber of dim light that cut across
the statue of the Soviet as Mattie gave him a thumbnail report on their actions in Frankfurt am Main and a rough outline of
Ilona Frei’s story.

As she spoke on, bile crept up and burned the high commissar’s throat. When she finished, Dietrich felt weak, almost disjointed,
almost like a marionette clipped of strings, and he hunched over his bottle.

He was silent for many moments, his drunken mind reeling, trying to think through the implications of the tale. He saw several
lines of possible inquiry that he did not like. Not one bit. Despite his pride, his ethics, and his devotion to duty at Berlin
Kripo, the high commissar began to think openly in a different manner, one that was more extremely self-interested.

“High Commissar?” Mattie said. “Are you there?”

Finally, Dietrich cleared his throat and said, “Your sources are prostitutes and a schizophrenic methadone addict. Is that
correct?”

“Yes,” Mattie said, again defensive. “But I believe them.”

The high commissar laughed scornfully. “That’s why you work for Private and I still work for Berlin Kripo. As a public servant,
I have to take sources into account when I’m judging where to put my manpower.”

“Greta Amsel is dead,” Mattie insisted. “I was an eyewitness to Artur Jaeger’s murder. And I think that body with Chris’s
was Ilse Frei’s.”

“Agnes Krüger is dead too,” Dietrich shot back. “And I’m beginning to believe Hermann killed Chris and the others.”

“No, that’s something different. I think.”

“Is it? Seems more likely than some crazy story about the slaughterhouse and a bogeyman named Falk.”

“Maybe Krüger is Falk,” Mattie said. “Or Pavel is Falk.”

Dietrich gritted his teeth. “Perhaps. I’ll ask them.”

Mattie’s voice came back bitter. “You’re saying you won’t talk to Ilona? Hear her entire story firsthand?”

Dietrich felt stronger now, charting his own way. “I will in due course, Frau Engel. Meanwhile, my time will be best spent
hunting for Hermann Krüger.”

The high commissar stabbed the End button on his phone, and the moon fell full victim to the clouds, leaving the war memorial
grounds so pitch-black that Dietrich thought for a moment he’d been blinded.