Ring of Lies (27 page)

“Your belt, too,” Adolf instructed with a smile. He had a dandified gait.

Alex unlocked the handcuff and handed the aluminum case to the guard, emptied his pockets, and passed through the metal detector. The machine remained silent. The stern-faced guard opened the case, glanced at the picture covered with protective felt, jabbed his fingers into the case, and nodded.

Adolf smiled in relief. Red capillaries drew a grid on his bulbous nose.

The elevator stopped, the gleaming wooden doors opened, and Alex could finally breathe again. Two armed guards stood stock-still like mannequins in front of the round, nickel-plated steel door to the vault room. Alex counted twenty-four bolts. The door was open, but the entrance was blocked by a screen of closely spaced metal bars. A set of keys attached to a coiled metal chain hung from Adolf's belt. He fit a key into the lock and turned it. The bars rose silently, and they went through.

“The basement vault room provides optimal conditions for the storage of artworks. Six years ago we installed a sophisticated climate-control system that keeps the vaults at a constant temperature of twenty-two degrees Celsius. It is accurate to a tenth of a degree. The humidity is a constant fifty percent. When we entered, the sensors picked up the change caused by our body heat and made the necessary adjustments.”

“No security cameras?” Alex asked with a tone of concern.

“We are not in the habit of violating our clients' privacy,” Adolf scolded, raising his nose haughtily.

“But isn't that a risk?”

“For whom?” Adolf asked as he handed Alex a key. He led the way to vault 777 and inserted another key into the left-hand lock. Alex inserted his in the lock on the right.

“Counterclockwise,” Adolf instructed. The two men turned their keys simultaneously, and the bars swung open.

In the adjacent vault Alex noticed a huge canvas covered with a tarp, most likely the Rothko original. He walked into 777 and placed the aluminum case on a high wooden shelf.

“You are leaving the case here?” Adolf asked in surprise.

“I'll be bringing three more pieces next week. I'll get it then.”

The guards outside were hidden behind the wall. Alex dropped his key, and Adolf hastened to bend down solicitously to pick it up. As he straightened up, he was elbowed harshly in the back of the neck. He let out a groan and collapsed, his head striking the marble floor and drool trickling from his mouth.

Alex leaned down for the keys hanging from the German's belt. The one he'd found in Justus's house was already in his hand. The chain was too short. He dragged the unconscious body closer to the door of Justus's vault. The chain still didn't reach. Grasping Adolf's limp body, he held it up to the bars, inserted the two keys in the locks, opened the vault, and dropped the German over his shoulder.

He looked toward the entrance of the vault room. The guards were still out of sight. He went into Justus's vault and did a quick search among the artworks. The original of Giacometti's
Walking Man
was in the back. There were dozens of paintings and draw
ings. He didn't have much time. Adolf could regain consciousness at any moment. The guards weren't far away, and he knew they would do whatever it took to prevent Berghoff Bank's first robbery.

He heard a voice behind him and spun around.

Adolf was struggling to raise himself on his elbows. The glazed look in his eyes was starting to clear. Alex hurried over. The German grabbed his leg in an effort to pull him down.

Alex swung his arms around Adolf's neck and applied just the right amount of pressure to his Adam's apple and the arteries in his neck. The banker kicked and grunted. Alex tightened his stranglehold, but Adolf stuck his effeminate fingers into his wrist. Then suddenly Adolf went limp, and an unnerving shudder ran through his body.

Footsteps were approaching. He lay Adolf on the green marble floor and returned to Justus's vault. He had the troubling thought that he might be risking himself for nothing. On the floor behind the last painting, his foot banged into a wooden box. He lifted the lid.

A sealed envelope.

Adolf groaned.

Alex stuck the envelope in his pocket and exited the vault. Throwing Adolf over his shoulder again, he used the woozy German's key to lock the door.

The banker shook his head and moaned. Alex dragged him away from Justus's vault and banged his head on the floor. He lifted his eyelids to make sure he was out and then shouted to the guards, “I need help! Quick!”

The two armed guards came running, their rubber soles squeaking on the marble. One aimed his gun at Alex, who knelt
down and started undoing the buttons on the shirt of the unconscious Adolf. “Call an ambulance!” he yelled to the stunned security guard.

“What happened to him?” the other guard asked, his eyes taking in the open door of the vault.

“Stop pointing that thing at me!” Alex barked. “He mumbled something about not feeling well, and then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed. Call an ambulance. What are you waiting for?”

The guard brought his radio to his lips and called for help.

Alex slapped Adolf's face.

“What's taking so long?” he said reproachfully to the bewildered guards.

Security officers in black suits arrived in the vault room, followed by the agitated Herr Berghoff, who gave Alex a hostile look.

“Does he have a medical condition?” Alex asked.

“A mild case of diabetes,” Berghoff replied. “What happened?”

“He just collapsed,” Alex said, slapping him again. Adolf was as still as a corpse. Alex felt his neck. “There's a pulse.”

Berghoff issued orders to the security guards, who split up and started checking each vault thoroughly. Still on his knees. All the vaults were locked except for his.

“You are finished with the vault?” Berghoff demanded.

He nodded.

“Then we must lock it immediately.”

Berghoff had his own master key. Together they relocked the vault.

“Come with me,” Berghoff instructed. Alex looked back, as if he were reluctant to leave Adolf lying on the floor unconscious.

“Come. You must leave,” Berghoff insisted.

“Why?”

The bank director gestured for a security guard to accompany them. The hefty man picked up his gun and kept it pointed at Alex's back.

“In an emergency, clients are forbidden to be in the vault room,” Berghoff explained.

“Someone has to stay with him,” Alex said.

“It is very odd,” Berghoff said, scratching his terrier-like head. “Adolf takes medication for his diabetes. It is under control. He has never fainted before.”

Alex halted. “Tell him not to point that gun at me.”

Berghoff gave him an appraising look. His pandering manner was gone. He signaled to the guard to lower his weapon.

They took the small elevator up to ground level. The German placed a firm hand on Alex's arm. “Please wait in my office until the ambulance arrives. We must complete our security check before I can allow you to leave.”

“Gladly,” Alex said, following Berghoff into his office and settling into an armchair. Berghoff whispered something in the guard's ear. Nodding, the man took up a position behind Alex.

Alex picked up a copy of the
Financial Times
and leafed through its pale salmon pages. A siren approached. Through the open door, he could see EMTs in white uniforms running down the hall, pushing an orange gurney that rattled.

He rose, moved toward the door, and felt the security guard's body heat. A rough hand landed on his shoulder. Alex grabbed it with both hands, twisted the guard's arm, and hurled him at the wall as hard as he could. The man's nose struck the wall, and Alex heard the sickening sound of shattering bones.

Undeterred by his bloody face, the guard spun around quickly
and sent his knee into Alex's gut. The blow to his liver was debilitating. The room became blurry, his head felt heavy, and his legs threatened to collapse. Taking a deep breath, he grasped the guard by the collar, swung him around, and slammed a fist into his thick red neck. The German moaned but continued to fight. The second punch to his neck knocked him out, and he fell to the floor.

Alex hugged his stomach, gasping for breath. Then he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his coat and walked out of the room. Striding calmly, he passed the guards at the front door, the
Financial Times
under his arm. He exited onto the Ku'damm, the chilly wind whipping at his face.

17 J
ULY
1944

The commandant came to the café this evening and neither ate nor drank. He simply stared at me with that chilling glance of his. I buried my trembling hands in my pockets.

He knows, and he is waiting.

When he left with his evil entourage, I slipped away to the flour pantry and let the deputy commandant out of his hiding place.

18 J
ULY
1944

How much longer must Jasmine endure the commandant's brutish urges? He defiles her body and sullies her honor. And I hide behind the counter and, ashamed, bury myself in the order slips.

If I stab him in the heart with a kitchen knife—we will all die.

I cry out to the heavens, but they are empty.

21 J
ULY
1944

I have removed my diary from its hiding place in the yard and I carry it with me.

So far, we have not managed to do anything.

At six o'clock sharp, the iron gate finally opened. The blind dog emerged, sniffing at the air, and the old man followed it out onto Hadad Street. They headed south, toward Subchi Park.

Paris was dozing, his face weary. Orchidea touched his shoulder. He opened his eyes and straightened up.

“What's going on?”

“We have to get going.”

Paris stood up, stretched, and yawned. He was momentarily taken aback by his own attire.

She cracked the door open and peered out into the stairwell. Male voices were coming from below. She went out wrapped in her burka and looked down at the bottom of the stairs. Two brawny moving men were struggling with an ancient refrigerator that was blocking the hallway. In their apartment there was no refrigerator!

Paris came up behind her, only his eyes exposed. He pulled at her arm. She followed him back into the empty apartment.

“They're coming here,” she said.

“Let's leave the clothes here. They might talk to us in Arabic,” Paris said, removing his burka and bra. Orchidea followed suit. She looked through the blinds at Hadad Street. It was getting dark. The old man was getting farther away, his figure growing smaller. The men's voices became louder and rougher, their breathing heavier. A curse word was sent into the air.

“We can't lose him,” Paris said. As they descended the stairs to the second floor, they came face-to-face with the older of the two men with the wide, dingy refrigerator. They were wasting time. The face of the stocky older man was shiny, and his mustache was stiff. The younger man peeked out from behind the refrigerator. He was just a boy. He looked at them apologetically. The older man said something.

“We're late for dinner. Can we get by?” Paris said in French.

No response.

He said it again in English.

The stout Arab took a deep breath and repeated himself in Arabic, louder this time.

Just get out of there.

Paris climbed up on the handrail and came down on the outer edge of the steps, sticking his feet between the wrought-iron posts. The older man gaped. Orchidea followed, climbing onto the handrail and taking care not to look down. She passed the Syrian moving men and the refrigerator. The youngster burst out laughing in astonishment.

They ran down the last flight and a half, the older man calling out to them from behind. Ignoring him, she left the building first and walked quickly toward the park. There was no sign of the old man. Bile rose in her throat. When she reached the corner, she turned around. Paris was right behind her.

“How are we going to find him?” she asked.

The Frenchman scanned the streets. Traffic was heavy.

“There he is!” he said.

They passed the park. The old man picked up the dog and turned into Hafez Ibrahim Street, entering a smoke-filled local café. They followed him in.

The large space was crowded with elderly men, lifeless drones, and young men in cheap leather jackets. Dice bounced off a wooden frame, coffee and tea were sipped noisily, and men with glassy eyes puffed on narghiles. A female singer keened, and violins wailed. The rancid air was filled with green flies buzzing around semolina cakes topped with pistachio nuts and dripping with honey.

The old man wiped off a rickety wooden chair with his hand, grumbling to himself, and sat down at a turquoise table, cradling the mangy dog in his arms.

An obese waiter with a pockmarked face approached the table with an air of deference, a stained kitchen towel over his shoulder. They spoke briefly.

Pockmarked Face moved off. After a while he returned and placed a glass of hot water on the table.

The old man did not remove his dark sunglasses, cap, or leather gloves. He took a bundle wrapped in newspaper from his pocket and opened it on the table. It held an herb Orchidea couldn't identify. Pulling off a few leaves, he tossed them into the glass. Then he drank the green infusion silently.

Pockmarked Face returned again and smiled, revealing discolored teeth. They spoke in Arabic, the old man gesturing with his hands.

Pockmarked Face ran from table to table, carrying a beat-up copper tray. He brought Paris and Orchidea the black coffee they'd ordered, and Paris paid the bill on the spot.

A cell phone rang deafeningly. The locals froze, staring. The old man stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a phone. The ringing got even louder. He nearly lost hold of the dog.

He raised his dark glasses for a moment to examine the screen.

Her stomach constricted. His left eye socket was empty.

The camera in Paris's cap was snapping one close-up after another. The old man had a brief conversation, disconnected, and brought the glasses back down over his eyes.

They decided to split up: she would follow their target while Paris hurried back to the man's house on Hadad Street. It was nearly dark out, and getting chilly. Hafez Ibrahim Street was cast in blue, the shadows black.

The old man packed up his things and left the café, Orchidea on his tail. The streetlamps had just been lit. He entered Subchi Park, which was filled with children at play, and paused in front of a fenced-in bed of gladioli. Then he walked home and disappeared through the iron gate.

Behind a wooden blind on the fourth floor, a light came on.

Paris joined her. “It's getting dangerous. We've been here too long. We have to talk to him.”

“There's at least one guard,” she said. “Maybe two.”

Paris was silent. Going back to the apartment they had commandeered was too risky. They climbed up to the roof of the house across the street.

“Let's go,” Orchidea said.

“Where?”

She spelled out her plan. Paris smiled, and then his face grew serious. “Are you sure?”

Orchidea nodded. She reached behind her back and undid her bra, pulling it out through the sleeve of her blouse. The cold made her flesh tingle.

They went back down to the street. Orchidea rang the bell on the iron gate. Paris waited across the street.

No response.

She pressed the button again.

No response.

She smiled up at the camera above.

Still no response.

Her heart pounding, she pressed down on the button and held it there.

A buzzer sounded. Orchidea pushed the gate open. A young, dark-complexioned man in a blue sweater was already coming toward her from the far end of the walkway. His eyes homed in on her blouse and the abundant jiggling flesh beneath it. Entering the courtyard, she met him halfway down the path. “I'm looking for the Polish embassy,” she said with a flirty smile. “They told me it was here.”

The guard's eyes were glued to her blouse. He shook his head. “Follow me,” he said. As he circled around her, he rubbed up against her right breast, seemingly by accident. He led her back to the gate.

“What did you say your name was?” he asked.

She shot him in the back of the neck.

“I didn't say.”

Her hand trembled as she lowered the silenced gun.

Paris appeared and dragged the body into the stairwell while she covered the bloodstain on the walkway with dirt. At the security desk inside, she found an old-fashioned black-and-white monitor divided into six squares. There was no recording device and no computer, merely real-time camera images that weren't saved.

There was no name on the last mailbox.

Nor on the dark wooden door on the fourth floor. Paris kicked the door, causing the frame to shake and a lump of plaster to fall
at their feet. Something gave way, but the lock remained intact. The second kick did the trick. Guns pointed, they rushed in. The apartment was lit dimly by a few bare bulbs. The blinds were all closed. They checked it out room by room. The floor was painted.

“This isn't possible,” Paris muttered.

The old man wasn't there.