Ring of Lies (7 page)

“Are you hungry?” Jane asked.

“Starving.”

“There's a good grill house not far away,” she said.

Alex nodded. “Go out the front gate, get the car, and meet me at the corner.”

Jane responded with a reluctant nod.

Alex crossed the backyard, climbed over the fence with its lethal finials, and stood perfectly still. Everything was quiet. He peered into the neighboring yards and scanned the edge of the forest before hunching over and taking off at a rapid pace, making footprints in the snow.

By the time she picked him up, the heater in the car was roaring. They drove in silence.

The branches of the black trees were swaying violently, scattering the snow that had collected on them like motes of dust in the air. Wind whipped at the wooden sign with curling neon letters reading
SCHLAFF BIERKELLER UND GRILL
.

They entered a small lobby and took the stairs down to a spacious cellar. The benches beside the long tables were filled with locals devouring mounds of meat and washing them down with large steins of beer. Opposite, whole pigs were turning slowly on a row of spits. Hearty laughter and roars issued from the throats of drunken men whose eyes gleamed with greed and lust.

They found seats at the crowded bar. The shrill German music
was deafening. The bartender was filling jugs of beer to the brim, the foam spilling over. A young waitress in a checked dress and white apron gathered them up and hurried off, five jugs in each hand.

“This was Justus's favorite place. He came here often,” Jane said.

“He knew how to live,” Alex said.

“You envy him, don't you?” she asked with a smile.

A mansion in the most prestigious section of Berlin, fine works of art, a hefty bank account, a dream library, and freedom. Oh, yes, he certainly did.

“A little,” he said. “Don't you?”

She didn't. The only daughter of wealthy elderly parents, she stood to inherit tens of millions. Pounds sterling, that is. She smiled. “Don't. He was terribly lonely.”

“And we're not?” he asked, the words issuing straight from his heart before he could hold them back.

She caressed his face, wrapped her slender arm around his shoulder, and leaned her head against his neck. Her hair smelled wonderful and her skin gave off the pleasant aroma of soap. They were surrounded by Germans. He gazed at them with animosity.

Alex admired the masterful precision of the Berlin Philharmonic; was impressed by the excellent German cars, and, living in a country as chaotic as Israel, often yearned for a bit of German order and discipline. He was in awe of the might of German industry and inspired by the great writers, poets, philosophers, and engineers that the German nation had given birth to. But there was one thing he was still incapable of.

Forgiving.

Two seats away was a man around fifty with shoulder-length blond hair. He looked like he'd fallen asleep in a tanning bed. He
was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and was totally focused on the dark red wine spinning in circles in the balloon glass he was twisting in his hand. He scrutinized the liquid, shoved his nose deep into the glass, and shut his blue eyes. Then he smiled.

“I think he's the owner,” Jane whispered.

They ordered pork chops and salad and waited in silence, cringing from the noise. Without warning, Jane grinned, brought her face closer, and kissed him on the lips.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he whispered.

“Should we order wine?”

“What's he drinking?” Alex asked.

The man rose, smiled at Jane, and walked away. He came back carrying a bottle of wine, which he deftly uncorked. He smelled the dark stain at the bottom of the cork before pouring a taste into a balloon glass he placed in front of her.

“Brunello di Montalcino, Poggio di Sotto 2001. It's a treasure. You enjoyed it the last time you were here,” he said in English with a heavy German accent. “I'm Oskar,” he introduced himself as he poured out two glasses with a broad smile. His skin was too taut. “You were here a few weeks ago with a regular patron of my establishment who is also a good friend. Justus bought several cases at the Brunello winery in Montalcino. In lieu of a corking fee, I got one bottle from each case. The rest belongs to him,” he explained, touching his glass to each of theirs.

The roasted pork chops were served sizzling in black cast-iron skillets together with wooden bowls of green salad that gleamed with a vinaigrette dressing.

“Enjoy your meal,” Oskar said. He moved aside to answer the phone.

They emptied their glasses and turned their heads to look out
over the crowded restaurant. By the time they turned back to the bar, their glasses were full again.

“Do you think we'll be drunk soon?” Alex said. A delighted grin spread across Jane's face.

The last time was in Madrid. They were young then. In order to kill the taste of the cheap wine they were drinking, they finished off four cans of sardines. She'd said he smelled like a well-behaved dolphin after a training session.

He kissed her, and he saw the surprise in her eyes. Immediately, she shut them and let herself savor the sensation. Recalling the sardines, he burst out laughing, breaking off the kiss.

“What's so funny?” she asked good-naturedly.

Someone touched his shoulder.

A slim waitress in a white apron said, “This is for you,” and handed him a folded paper napkin.

“Who's it from?” he asked.

“I don't know.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“He left.”

Alex glanced at the phone. 23:18.

He unfolded the napkin, which had the ornate letters of Schlaff's logo in the corner. The message read:

“I saw you at the train station in Frankfurt in 2006. You went back to the freight car and set the bomb when the girl could not do it. I was standing watch. Somebody tried to kill me tonight. Justus is not answering his phone. He is not at home and he is not here. Something may be wrong. Meet me in the forest by the abandoned NSA station on Teufelsberg at a quarter to twelve. Upper level of the building with the three radomes. Come alone. Berlin.”

In German, Teufelsberg means “devil's mountain.”

27 J
UNE
1943

The Germans wish to suck the marrow of pleasure out of Paris, but our city is already gaunt and feeble. There is a worrisome shortage of goods. The black market is thriving, and prices are sky-high. We have stopped serving lunch in the café. Income is plummeting.

28 J
UNE
1943

I close the café after midnight. The leavened dough rises until four in the morning. Then I return and bake a smaller version of the baguette de tradition for widows and the needy. Fortunately, our apartment is above the boulangerie, so the curfew does not prevent me from working. Jasmine pleads with me to charge money for these smaller baguettes.

I refuse. We will continue to cut down on our expenses.

We are all still together, still alive, and there is food on the table.

11 J
ULY
1943

I miss the rich yellow butter from Normandy. I could smell the sun in it, and the blue sky, and a lust for life. I dream about raisins from the Loire, about their robust, concentrated taste and their deceptive, salty sweetness. Where have the pheasants of Périgord disappeared to?

“I'm coming with you,” Jane said, reaching for her purse.

“He said to come alone.”

“It's too dangerous, Alex. It could be a trap.”

“He must be Berlin. And he knows that Justus is missing. He could be the lead we've been looking for. If I'm not back in an hour, take a cab to Justus's house.”

“Alex . . .” she began, her eyes clouded with apprehension. He made a lame attempt at a smile, kissed her, and left.

Outside, the heavy bass notes from the cellar pounded on the dark, cold air. The parking lot reached to the edge of the frozen lake. He got into the Mercedes, checked his Glock, and studied the map.

The road was dark and empty, with dirty snow piled up on either side.

Berlin wrote
Somebody had tried to kill him tonight.

Alex took out his phone, turned on the scrambler app, and punched in a number. At Glilot, HQ answered immediately.

“I need the plans for the NSA listening station on Teufelsberg. Blueprints and satellite images. It's urgent.”

The traffic on snowy Route 115 was light. Alex sped northward, quickly leaving behind the luxury homes of Grunewald. The Mercedes's tires gripped the compacted snow well. He passed Charlottenburg and turned west and then south, into the dark forest. In the car's strong headlights he could see solid oaks and
lindens and slender pine trees, their branches white with snow.

Racing along Teufelsseechaussee, he suddenly saw a terrified animal in the middle of the road. His headlights made its big ears seem almost transparent. A young red fox. He slammed on the brakes and switched off the headlights. Glancing at his watch, he realized that he was cutting it close.

He turned the lights back on. The road was empty. His phone vibrated. The blueprints and sat photos had arrived. He studied them hurriedly.

The moon was hidden. The narrow road twisted and turned as it rose up the mountain. The Military Technology Faculty of the Third Reich was buried under the man-made mound above Berlin.

The station had been abandoned when the Berlin Wall fell and the two Germanys were reunited.

In the dim moonlight, Alex saw the outlines of the three giant geodesic domes covered in tarps. They used to house thirty-six-foot satellite dishes, but the radomes were empty now. The snow was coming down harder, turning the black night white.

As Alex circled the tower bearing a smaller radome, the car lost traction on the slick ice. The trees pushed up to the verges of the narrow road.

In front of him was the main building with the three radomes on the roof, the middle one positioned high on a tall tower. He parked at the foot of an exterior flight of concrete steps, pulled out his gun, and zipped up his jacket. His body was buffeted by the strong wind and his face stung from the freezing snow. The forest was filled with night sounds: distant growls, chilling shrieks, hoarse croaking.

Nearby, under a layer of ice, flowed the Havel River. It felt as if
the wind was about to uproot the whole mountain. A mysterious whistling pierced the air.

The wall along the steps was tattooed with overlapping bursts of graffiti, and the acrid stench of urine hung in the air. As he climbed to the second floor, his high hiking boots crushed shards of glass and ice underfoot.

Somebody tried to kill me tonight.

His foot hit a heavy metal disk, causing it to spin away noisily. He heard the creaking of a steel door. He froze, straining to listen. The mysterious whistling grew louder. He tightened his grip on the Glock. The gale swirled around him, and he was almost blind in the spectral darkness. Dull footsteps sounded somewhere above him. The wind lashed at the tarps over the radomes as if they were giant tom-toms. He continued upward, sticking close to the wall and trying not to slip on the ice under his feet, until he saw an interior set of steps leading up to the roof.

Slowly he climbed the stairs, all his senses primed. He glanced at his watch: he was two minutes early. The whistling was louder, almost deafening. He heard a groan and took the last few steps at a run.

Footsteps were gradually fading into the distance. He hid behind a flap of canvas. Then he moved forward, holding the gun out in front of him. The snow was coming down hard, turning the air white. Toward the east he caught a view of the needlelike TV tower.

“Berlin?” he whispered into the darkness.

A nocturnal bird of prey shrieked overhead.

Alex entered the first radome, five stories high.

“Berlin?”

Crouching, he exited quickly and scanned the roof before
entering the second radome. Graffiti-covered torn Teflon sheets flapped in the driving wind. His phone told him that the time set for the meeting had passed.

Alex turned on his flashlight and passed the beam over the concrete floor. A rusty metal frame in the shape of a hexagon was anchored to the floor by fat screws as big as soda bottles. Near the edge of the radome, the beam landed on a dark mass.

The hair on his neck stood up.

Someone was there.

The man was lying on the floor surrounded by a dark stain. Blood spurted upward like water in a fountain. His throat had been ripped open, the damaged windpipe visible. His eyes gaped in terror.

“Who did this to you?” Alex demanded.

A weak gurgle.

“Who?” he repeated, louder.

“Kahl.” The single syllable issued directly from the torn throat, together with bubbles of blood.

“Who?”

The blood slowed. “Kei . . . keine Augenbrauen.”

The man shuddered, his hips rising and then dropping heavily to the floor. He emitted a long sigh, followed by silence.

Keeping hold of his pistol, Alex felt with his free hand for the artery in the man's sticky red neck. No pulse.

Was this Berlin?

He used his phone to check the meaning of the man's last words. “Bald. No eyebrows.”

Leaving the radome, he jogged around the edge of the roof, peering into the darkness below. There was no one there. In the distance, he heard an off-road motorcycle start up, the wind distorting the sound of the rough roar. The beam of a headlight flitted among the dark trees and disappeared.

Shit. The motorcycle was already out of range of his gun.

Whoever had attacked Berlin could easily have come after him as well. The killer had followed Berlin here for the sole purpose of taking his life. As soon as he'd done what he came for, he left. He had no interest in Alex. But what about Jane? She was a Nibelung. If the killer knew Berlin's identity, he might also know hers. Alarmed, Alex realized he'd left her alone in the restaurant.

Nevertheless, he went back to the dead body and looked through the pockets of his clothes. Nothing there. Moving back, he passed the flashlight over the filthy floor. He saw a cable resembling a bicycle brake cable. The silvery fibers were stained red with blood. The reek of feces hung in the air.

Alex heard a noise behind him. He spun around, holding the flashlight parallel to the Glock. A human shape!

His finger tightened on the trigger.

“Alex!”

A woman.

Jane.

Fuck! He raised the flashlight to her face.

“Don't shoot!”

He could see her breath.

What was she doing here? He moved the beam to the slaughtered body.

“Dead?” she asked with no sign of panic.

“Very.”

“Berlin?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“He said something about a bald man with no eyebrows.”

“There should be a chip.”

“Where?”

“Right side of the groin. Close to the artery.”

“I told you to wait in the restaurant.”

“I was worried. Pull down his pants.”

“How did you get here?”

“I stole a car. Pull down his pants.”

She wasn't supposed to be here.

Alex slid the glove off the right hand of the corpse.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I don't know. Checking.”

The hand was wrapped in a bloodstained cloth. Alex unwound it and saw a long cut across the palm. He glanced at the shiny steel cable on the floor. The picture was clear.

The stench coming from the body was getting stronger. Death by strangulation causes the sphincter to relax. Alex pulled down the pants, breathing through his mouth. “Where is it?” he asked. Jane crouched down and felt along the edge of the fouled underwear.

Alex tasted bile rising in his throat.

“I found it!” she said, coughing.

He aimed the flashlight at the man's groin. “I don't see anything.”

“You can't see it. I can feel it under his skin,” she said, pressing her fingers into the dead flesh. “I can feel the chip. Oh God,” she blurted in fear. “It's Berlin, no question!”

“I almost shot you,” Alex said.

“Look how deep the garrote went. Whoever strangled him wanted to make certain he couldn't talk.”

“Jane?”

“What?”

“His throat is cut. What makes you think he was strangled?”

The silence between them was heavy. The wind outside was raging and whistling. The seconds ticked by slowly.

Why wasn't she answering him?

“Can't you smell it?” she said finally.

“What?”

“Semen, Alex. He discharged semen. That's what happens when a man is strangled.”