Ring of Lies (14 page)

“Are you okay?” Alex asked.

“I heard a groan and something breaking,” Daniella said.

Fat drops of blood were falling from his hands. The pain was becoming more intense, radiating to his shoulders. He raised his hands above his head, but the bleeding didn't stop.

“You're bleeding from the neck, too,” she said.

He remembered the swaddled infant he had held moments after her birth. “You saved my life,” he said. “He would've killed me.” He looked with repulsion at the dead man on the floor. He was about six feet tall, with a tight, muscular body. His hands were protected by black Gore-Tex gloves reinforced with what appeared to be Kevlar strips. The shiny steel brake cable was still wrapped around his hands.

Alex hurried into the bathroom. The water was still running in the shower, and the room was steamy. Daniella followed right behind him. He stuck his hands under the water. It burned like white-hot iron. The floor of the shower turned red, and the glass walls became spattered with pink dots. He breathed deeply, bit his lips.

“I killed him.”

“You saved my life. Both our lives. Get some towels.”

She stared, mesmerized, at the floor of the shower stall. “It's so red.”

“Daniella, give me a towel!” he ordered. Pain was shooting
from his hands to the top of his head. He kept forcing himself to breathe deeply, fighting not to scream.

Daniella didn't respond. Gingerly removing his hands from the water, he shuffled toward the towel rack on the opposite wall. Bloody water dripped down his arms, staining the floor. He wrapped his throbbing hands in the white towels and let out a groan. His blurred image was reflected in the steamy mirror over the sink. Blood was still issuing from the cut in his neck. He soaked it up with the white towel around his hand. A smell of iron wafted around the room, carried by the steam.

They had to get out of there. He moved toward Daniella. She flinched, staring in terror at the towels, which were quickly turning red.

“Is there anyone else on the farm?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Can you get yourself ready to leave?”

She gave him a puzzled look.

“Go pack your things. I'll take care of the rest.”

He found some kitchen towels, poured some grappa on them, and replaced the bloody dressings on his hands. It hurt like hell. He covered the towels with cling wrap, using his teeth to tear holes for his fingers.

Outside, he noticed an old wooden door beside the steps. Inside were towels, linen, and cleaning products. The storeroom produced another treasure: a huge roll of plastic wrap, the kind used by movers.

Back in the living room, he pulled the knife from the man's back. His gleaming bald head shone like a persimmon. The eyes were open and looked strange. They looked crazed and frightening.

“He doesn't have any eyebrows,” Daniella said behind him. No eyelashes, either. The eyes seemed to have been pinned into his forehead.

As Alex removed the dead man's jacket and sweater, he remembered the words Berlin had mumbled on Teufelsberg—“bald, no eyebrows.” The stranger's body was smooth and completely hairless. It looked as if he'd just been through a course of chemotherapy.

He was undoubtedly the same man who'd attacked Berlin on Teufelsberg. The MO was identical. And it was very likely that he was responsible for the deaths of Justus and the other Nibelungs.

It was over.

The man's pockets were empty. Alex stripped him bare and searched for identifying marks. There were no tattoos, no scars, no birthmarks. He spread two white sheets on the dark wooden floorboards, moving awkwardly because of the dressings on his hands. For the moment, the pain was bearable. He attempted to hold his phone steady to snap a picture, but the device slipped from his fingers.

“Daniella?”

She reacted immediately.

“Take a picture of his face.”

Nodding, she did as he asked.

“What else?”

“Do you know how to scan his fingerprint with the phone?”

She nodded reluctantly, compressing her lips as she picked up the man's right hand. She grasped the thumb, grimacing in disgust. Then she examined his index and ring fingers and finally released the hand with a somber expression. “Take a look,” she said.

“At what?”

“No fingerprints.”

Alex came closer and scrutinized the man's fingers. The prints had been burned off with acid. He could see the scars. “Take a picture of the fingertips.”

Daniella took the photos.

“That's it, I'll be done with him soon,” he announced. “Finish packing.”

He forwarded the pictures to Glilot. A second later, Butthead called. “Are you all right?”

Alex filled him in on the attack.

“No one would burn off his own prints,” Alex said.

The next call was from HQ. There was no available plane in the vicinity. It would take a while. He was told to make his way to Milan as quickly as possible. If they located a plane, they'd direct it there.

Alex struggled to silence the racket in his head. He'd been in Tuscany
before
his meeting with Justus in Berlin. His phone was secure; it couldn't be hacked. So whoever was gunning for the Nibelungs had no way of knowing about Daniella.

Had he picked up a tail on Bebelplatz? If that were the case, the man who killed Berlin on Teufelsberg would have killed him, too, and brought the whole Ring down then and there.

The only logical conclusion was that the attacker had been watching Justus's house and had followed him to the airport, gotten on the plane with him, and tailed him here.

The back of his neck went cold. Someone had been tracking him for a long time, and he hadn't had a clue.

Alex turned his attention back to the body. He rolled the corpse in the sheets and wound layers of plastic wrap around the still-warm human bundle. It was hard work. He scrubbed the
blood off the dark wood and then went into the bathroom, where he used some bleach to get rid of as much of the spattered blood as he could. The cleanup took a long time.

Daniella put her suitcase in the backseat of the Giulietta. On the table in the living room she left six hundred euros and a note apologizing for her hasty departure and the broken TV and providing her credit-card number to pay for the damage.

They crammed the corpse into the trunk of the car. They drove through the forest in a thick fog that curled itself around the trunks of the bare trees. They followed the signs south, toward Siena. A few minutes later, Alex left the roadway and drove up to the top of a hill, where he dumped the naked body near a ruined building. He burned the plastic wrap and bloody sheets in a garbage pit. Then he returned to the roadway and headed in the opposite direction. His hands gripping the steering wheel throbbed.

They turned onto the highway to Florence. After a while, Alex pulled into an Autogrill rest area, stopping at the far end of the large parking lot. Daniella went in alone while he waited in the car.

She returned with coffee, pastries, medical supplies, and extra large black gloves. She undid his improvised bandages and bathed the gaping wounds in Betadine. Alex breathed deeply. Then she wrapped his hands in clean white bandages and pulled the gloves over them. They pressed painfully on the open wounds.

“Where are we going, Dad?”

She'd called him
dad
. Maybe she did it without thinking.

“Milan. We'll take a plane from there.”

“Are you coming home with me?”

“I wish I could.”

Her face fell.

Daniella closed her eyes and leaned her head on the window. It was quiet in the car. Jane would still be asleep in the house in Grunewald. It was too early to call.

“I knew you'd come,” she said softly, her eyes still shut. He stroked her head with his gloved hand. A little before five in the morning, they passed Florence on the way north to Bologna. It was still dark out.

She was strong. The harsh blows she'd suffered hadn't broken her. Look how she'd run out of the shower without a moment's hesitation and plunged the knife into his attacker's back, saving both their lives. She might be young, but she was stronger than him, and ten times tougher.

Trucks were racing past in the opposite lane, their headlights blinding.

He had to force himself not to cry.

Daniella's eyelids twitched. They were nearing Parma. He called Jane and hung up after eight rings. She must be in the shower.

He rang her again at six thirty.

No answer.

A cord of concern wrapped itself around his heart.

Paris. Unreadable Paris. The man of the dead body and the stakeout in the forest.

He tried Jane's number a third time, with no luck.

Paris. Shit!

Was it possible that Paris wasn't really Paris?

Apprehensive, he tried Jane again.

Still no answer.

He called Butthead.

“Check the logs of the emergency services in Berlin starting from last night. Check the hospitals.” He kept his voice low. His stomach was churning.

“What are we looking for?”

“Jane Thompson, British citizen, forty-six, slender build, five ten.”

He glanced at Daniella, praying that she couldn't hear him.

Hammers were pounding in his head. First Daniella, now Jane.

The sky was slowly turning a cloudless blue.

Butthead called.

“Sorry, Alex—”

“Spit it out,” he barked, panicking.

“A Jane Doe answering that description was brought to the Charité Mitte in Wedding.”

“What's her condition?”

“She's not in the system yet. She was brought to the emergency room by ambulance and was taken straight into surgery.”

“No!”

“Dad?” Daniella asked quietly. “What's the matter?”

“What?”

“You're crying.”

“Charité Mitte, guten Morgen,” a thick female voice recited.

“You admitted a surgical emergency this morning around six o'clock. A Jane Doe. Can you tell me her condition?”

The Gulfstream started its descent into Tegel.

“I'm sorry, sir. We don't give out medical information over the telephone.”

“I'm on a plane on my way to Berlin, and I'm very concerned. Please, I just want to know her condition.”

“I'm sorry. It is forbidden. Are you a relative?”

“I'm her husband.”

“You should be here, sir.”

Alex hugged Daniella tight, burying his face in her sweet-smelling hair. He shouldn't be abandoning her now. He prayed that he'd chosen the best of the bad options he had.

“Go, Dad,” she said, giving him a kiss. “Be strong.”

Tense and agitated, he disembarked from the plane in the dry chill of Berlin. He gazed at her from the rear window. She waved at him from the door of the plane.

Alex took the elevator to the Surgical Trauma and Intensive Care Unit on the seventh floor. The nurse at the desk had heavy thighs and no lips. Her mouth was no more than a thin line. Stonily, she made it clear that he would not be able to see the patient in the recovery room.

The hospital smells, the intense dry heat, and the presence of police detectives all urged Alex want to get out into the fresh air to cool off. He had to think carefully before he made a move.

He waited for the elevator, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. When it finally arrived, he got in last and took a position close to the door, facing front.

His phone beeped.

“Do you need me?” It was a text from Paris.

If he could get his hands on Paris, he'd squeeze the life out of him.

The elevator stopped on the second floor with a ding. All the passengers except one spilled out and headed off in different directions with worried faces. Alex stayed where he was. The doors closed.

He texted back: “Where are you?”

Within a second, his phone beeped again.

“Behind you.”

Paris was dressed in scrubs, his face hidden behind a surgical mask.

Alex grabbed Paris by the throat and started squeezing as hard as he could. Making no attempt to defend himself, Paris croaked, “It wasn't me.”

The Frenchman's face was turning red. He finally rammed his fingers between his throat and Alex's hands, his small eyes bulging. Alex squeezed harder, but the man had the neck of a bull. He managed to break away, crashing into the corner of the elevator, where he gasped for breath. “I swear on my children's lives, I didn't do it!”

They settled themselves
on a freezing wooden bench on snow-covered Robert-Koch-Platz. An ambulance drove by with flashing orange lights, its siren silent.

Alex gave Paris a piercing look. “What happened to her?”

“I was digging a deep grave. She got nervous. Maybe she thought I was making it big enough to hold her, too. I just wanted it deep. There are wild boars out there. She drew her gun on me. I let her feel my chip and she calmed down. I went back to the house and she stayed outside, alone. I heard a scream. I ran out. Someone was strangling her from behind with a thin steel cable. He was stocky and strong. I saw him. A bald guy.

“He was cutting into her neck. When he saw me he ran away. She was losing blood. I bandaged the wound and called an ambulance.”

“You said he was bald?”

“He's scary. Sick.”

“Someone tried to kill me with a steel cable, too,” Alex said.

“This stinks,” Paris said. “Two attacks the same way at the same time.”

Alex took out his phone and flipped to the picture of the dead body of his attacker. He enlarged it and showed it to Paris. “This is the man who attacked me.”

Paris looked at the photo and laughed. “You're kidding me, right?”

“Why?”

“That's the man who attacked Jane.”