The Good Thief's Guide to Berlin (22 page)

It was about time for me to slip on some gloves of my own. I tucked my spectacles case away and set about easing one of my customized gloves over the taped fingers of my right hand.

“Your fingers, they are broken?” Vladislav asked, in labored English.

“Hey,” I said. “It speaks.”

“What happened?”

“Shark bite.” I raised my taped fingers. “Hell of a thing.”

The guy grunted. Conversation over.

The elevator continued climbing and we fell into silence. I might have said it was awkward, but embarking on a break-in with these guys was never going to be a relaxing jaunt. I didn’t relish being in any space with them, let alone a confined one.

Eventually, the carriage slowed to a halt on the seventh floor. I was weightless for a tiny fraction of time, then there was a muted ding and the doors slid apart, opening directly into Andrew Stirling’s apartment.

So much for security. One snap lock on the front door. One flimsy pin tumbler inside the elevator, and here we were.

“Top floor,” I said. “Household goods, kitchenware, bed linen.”

The Russians ignored me. They bundled out of the elevator and stood admiring the apartment.

I have to say it was magnificent. The floors were laid with a dark, highly buffed parquet that seemed to go on forever. The walls were a startling white that sloped inward toward a flat area of ceiling in the middle of the apartment, mimicking the mansard roof on the outside. There were ample windows. A lot of glass. The whole place was flooded with light and had a generous, airy feel.

The elevator doors shuffled closed behind me, and I ambled to my right, into an open-plan kitchen. The kitchen was sleek and minimalist. The units were bright orange, the countertops white granite.

“Where is the package?” Pavel asked, and his voice seemed to echo around the cavernous space.

“I don’t know,” I told him. “We’ll have to search for it.”

I ran my gloved fingers along the kitchen counter and sauntered into a dining area. Six clear plastic chairs were arranged around a glass dining table. To my left, in the very middle of the room, a central fireplace had been fitted flush inside a narrow partition wall. On the other side of the fireplace I could see a generous L-shaped couch and a leather recliner.

The windows beside me offered a wonderful view over the raised iron train tracks below and the rooftops beyond. I looked left and the Fernsehturm slid into view, the silvery observation dome glinting like a tacky Christmas tree bauble.

“You waste time,” the Russian said.

“Patience,” I told him. “I’m just getting a feel for the place.”

“You must search for the package.”

“
We
must,” I corrected him. “And we will. In just a moment.”

There was a low white cabinet below the window and resting on top of it was a table lamp and a dome-shaped object draped in a heavy black cloth. A pungent odor permeated the cloth. A stale, musty, gassy scent. I lifted the cloth away.

And that’s when the racket started up.

There was a sudden caw. A piercing screech. An urgent flapping.

It was followed by some fast twittering and chirruping. Some modulated whistling.

Then the plump little bird turned around on its perch, cocked its head, and screeched,
“What’s your name? What’s your name?”

The bird was jet black with an orange beak and yellow flashes on the side of its face. A band of yellow curved around the base of its neck and there were streaks of white on its wingtips. It was bigger than a starling, smaller than a crow. It was housed inside a large metal cage. There were three perches, a tray of feed, and a water dish clipped to the bars. Plenty of wood shavings and newspaper lined the base.

“My name’s Buster. What’s your name? What’s your name?”

I laughed. Couldn’t help it. Then I ducked down and poked a finger through the cage. Buster considered me with his glittering black eyes. He blinked. Then he turned his back on me, acting coy. I swiveled the cage until he was facing me again.

“What’s your name?”
he asked.

“Charlie,” I told him.

He raised his beak in the air and blinked some more. Something seemed to build up from inside him and bubble in his gullet. He issued a long, croaking, creaking noise.
“Cheeky boy,”
he squawked.

I turned to the Russians. “Can you believe this?” I asked. “A talking bird.”

“You waste time,” Pavel said. “We must find the package.”

“But it’s a bird that talks!”

Pavel shook his head, as if exasperated. Vladislav fiddled with his gun, flicking the safety on and off.

“Oh, my goodness,”
Buster twittered.
“What
are
you doing?”

“Gotta go,” I told him, and wiggled my finger inside his cage. “It was nice meeting you.”

“What
are
you doing?”

“Good question.” I straightened and rested my hands on my waist. I considered the room. Considered the Russians. “We should split up,” I told them. “This is a big place. It could take some searching.”

“Big place,”
Buster said.
“Big place.”

“See?” I told Pavel. “Even the bird agrees.”

“Then what is it you suggest?”

“One of us starts in here. Another one tackles the bedrooms. The last guy takes the bathrooms.”

“The bathrooms?”

“Absolutely. There are a whole bunch of hiding places inside your average bathroom.”

“Bathroom,”
Buster said.
“Bathroom. BathROOOOM.”

“I hate this bird,” Pavel said.

“So I’ll search in here.”

“Nyet.”
He shook his head. “You waste time with the bird already. You will search the bathrooms.”

“Fine. What about you two?”

“I will search the bedrooms.” He glanced at his companion with the scar. “Vladislav will search in here.” He jutted his chin toward the cage. “Kill the bird if it talks too much.”

“Hey!”

Vladislav showed me his bad dental work. I could almost picture him swallowing the poor creature, like Sylvester the Cat eating Tweety Pie.

“You leave Buster alone. He’s not
that
annoying.”

Buster flapped his wings and issued a fast cackle.
“My name’s Buster. What’s your name? What’s your name?”

“Okay,” I admitted. “So he’s a little annoying.”

“Cheeky boy!”

I raised my palms, like I was calling a truce. Then I bent low and gathered up the black cloth and draped it over Buster’s cage again.

“Uh-oh,”
Buster said.
“Good night, all. Good night, all.”

He chirruped. He flapped his wings. He fell silent.

“See?” I whispered. “Problem solved.”

“Then let us search. And if you find something, do not try to hide it from us, or you will be killed. Understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then we must begin.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

There was a corridor to the side of the kitchen, with two doors off to the right, one for a bedroom and one for a bathroom. There was a third door at the very end.

I led Pavel toward it and discovered a spacious bedroom with an en suite bathroom. I flipped on the bathroom light and an extractor fan whirred into life. Pavel didn’t like it. He clucked his tongue.

“Hey,” I said, “I need to see what I’m doing.”

I left him alone in the bedroom and started to work through my search routine. I began with the toilet cistern. It was clean. Nothing inside. Then I checked the toilet bowl, scanning for any lengths of cotton or string, just in case an item had been sealed inside a plastic bag and flushed to the other side of the U-bend. I ducked down and felt around behind the toilet. Then I moved on to the sink.

As I worked, I could hear Pavel opening drawers and fumbling through clothes. It was a sensible enough starting point. If he made his way through the room slowly and methodically, it could take him anything up to twenty minutes to conclude his task. If he was less patient, it could be as little as ten. I guessed that gave me eight minutes, minimum.

The sink was clean. So was the medicine cabinet. So was the shower compartment.

I dried my gloves on a towel and removed my spectacles case from my coat pocket. Then I selected one of my micro screwdrivers, ducked out of the bathroom door, and flipped the light switch off.

Pavel glanced up. I showed him my screwdriver.

“Going to check the extractor fan,” I said. “Don’t want my hand to get chewed up.”

“You do not need to tell me everything you do.”

“Just keeping you informed.”

I climbed up onto the toilet seat and stretched toward the fan. I undid the screws holding the plastic cover in place and poked around inside, finding nothing but dust and lint and hair. I replaced the cover and stepped out of the en suite.

“This one’s clean,” I said. “How are you getting on?”

Pavel was down on the floor, scrabbling around beneath the bed. His backside was pointed toward me.

“I find nothing so far,” he said, his voice muffled.

“Well, keep looking. I’m going to tackle the other bathroom.”

“Please. Just do it.”

I scanned the bedroom quickly. There were plenty of places still to search. He hadn’t tackled the wardrobe or the laundry bin or the bookshelf against the wall. I figured I had at least five minutes.

I headed along the corridor with my screwdriver, trying not to appear as if I was hurrying. I couldn’t see Vladislav ahead of me, but I could hear the clang of pots and pans being rearranged in the kitchen.

I swung the bathroom door inward and assessed the lock. It was just what I’d been hoping to find. A simple push-button mechanism. Not the sturdiest security system in the world, but probably sufficient for what I had in mind.

I flipped on the light and the extractor fan and got busy with my screwdriver again. There were two screws holding the door handles in place on either side of the door. They were long and they took some undoing. I had to be careful. The droning of the fan would mask some noise, but I couldn’t afford for anything to fall and clatter against the tiled floor.

Once I had the screws free, I gripped them between my lips and eased both handles away from the door. Then I switched the handles around and reinserted the screws and fastened them until they were tight.

The bathroom suite was luxurious. There was a walk-in shower cubicle, a whirlpool bath, a sink, a toilet, and a bidet. The walls were decorated with white, brick-shaped tiles. The floor was laid in a checkerboard style.

The bath was situated in the far corner of the room and it was large enough for something to be plausibly hidden beneath it. There was a curved side panel that would need to be removed first, so I stooped and got to grips with it.

I was halfway through when Pavel walked by and entered the second bedroom. As soon as I could hear him opening drawers, I resumed my work until I was able to pry the panel free. It came away with a screech of plastic, trailing a length of silicone sealant. I set it to one side, then placed my hands flat on the floor and peered underneath the bath. It was dark and dry and dusty. It was just about ideal.

I slipped my screwdriver away inside my spectacles case. Then I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand and found my feet and crept across to the door. Slowly now, I compressed the push-button lock until it engaged with the barest click. Then I checked my reflection in the mirror over the sink, gave myself a look that said,
Here goes nothing,
cleared my throat, and started to yell.

“Hey, I’ve found something. Guys! There’s something in here. You should come take a look.”

Pavel was the first to emerge. He seemed rattled by my outburst, as if he couldn’t comprehend how unprofessional I was being. I shrugged and peered over his shoulder to see Vladislav stomping toward me from the living room.

“What is it?” Pavel demanded.

“I don’t know for sure. It’s trapped beneath the bath, right up against the wall.”

He gazed in at the bath and the gaping hole where the panel had been. Then he turned to Vladislav and issued a set of orders in quick-fire Russian. Vladislav shoved me aside and paced across the tiled floor and got down on all fours. He craned his neck.

“It’s right in the corner,” I told him.

He rolled onto his back and shuffled under the bath, like a mechanic scuttling beneath a car.

“See it?”

He didn’t answer. He just stretched his arm and fumbled around. His T-shirt rode up above the waistband of his jeans, exposing his hairy belly.

“His arm’s not long enough,” I told Pavel. “Maybe I should do it.”

“Nyet.”
He pushed the flat of his hand against my chest. “Not you.”

He stepped inside the bathroom and kicked at the feet of his colleague, barking more Russian commands. Vladislav squirmed out from beneath the bath and his boss dropped to his knees.

I didn’t wait any longer. I snatched at the bathroom door and hauled it shut. It closed with a thud. The lock engaged. I sprinted for the living room.

I could hear the door handle rattling behind me. They were yanking it and twisting it, but the lock wouldn’t budge. There was the slap of a hand against wood. The drumming of a fist.

“Open this door. Release us. Open this door.”

Not likely. I was away on my toes, blitzing past the kitchen. I was running so hard that I couldn’t stop in time for the glass dining table. I tried to swerve, but my swerve came too late, and my thigh slammed into the table edge. I stumbled and nearly went down, but I stuck my hands out in front of me and gripped hold of the low side unit and pushed myself up and grabbed for the bird cage.

It was surprisingly heavy. It was cumbersome.

It was the secret object I’d been hunting for all this time.

To be exact, Buster was the mysterious package. He was a mynah bird from the Indian subcontinent. According to Freddy, Buster had been presented to the ambassador many years ago, at the end of a posting to the British High Commission in Sri Lanka, and he’d accompanied him around the world ever since.