Alphabet House (30 page)

‘Drive somewhere where we won’t be bothered by anyone,’ Bryan ordered, turning down the volume of the overture’s final movement.

‘So you can kill me undisturbed, I suppose.’ The stout man seemed impassive.

‘So I can kill you undisturbed, if it suits me, yes,’ said Bryan, making a mental note of their route.

The sun was still gleaming as Freiburg slid behind them as they made their way out of town. A tiny child was making the most of the carefree summer, rolling, dripping wet, in the wide gutters that carried a seemingly unending stream of water alongside the pavement. A young woman tried to catch him, practically knocking over a nun in the process.

‘Why have you come back? Why are you hunting us? Is it the money?’ The corners of the broad-faced man’s mouth turned downward as his cold eyes followed the traffic.

‘What money?’

‘Petra Wagner says you asked about Gerhart Peuckert. Was he the one who was supposed to show the way to us? Was he supposed to guide you to our goods?’

‘Is Gerhart Peuckert still alive then?’ Bryan searched for possible clues in Lankau’s face. There were none. Slowly Lankau turned his head towards Bryan.

‘No, von der Leyen,’ he said. He looked at the landscape before him and smiled. ‘He’s not.’

When the houses and farms had thinned out and vineyards began to wind through the landscape, Bryan had to make a decision. Lankau had said he had more information for him. And he knew somewhere they could talk without being disturbed. There were more than enough signs that Lankau was luring him into yet another trap. Already here, only a couple of miles from the centre of town, it seemed deserted. Despite the numerous side roads and the homeward-bound traffic, each of the houses that lay set back from the main road might contain secrets Bryan could well do without.

Every time he glanced at Lankau’s impassive face, it struck him that Kröner or Petra might have been initiated into an emergency plan whereby Lankau brought the victim straight into the lion’s den.

Lankau was amused when Bryan asked about the farm.

‘Goodness no, I don’t live there. My family and I live in town. But you won’t find them there, if that’s what you’re after. They’re gone.’ Then he laughed. ‘This is my little oasis, you understand.’

There was a ‘No Trespassing’ sign at the bottom of the road.

Unlike the surrounding farms, the house had only one storey, though it was complimented with several wings of small, bungalow-like buildings.

If this was a little oasis, Lankau must be a very wealthy man. It lay well off the road, surrounded by rows of grapevines small enough in number to indicate that wine production was only a hobby.

The courtyard was shaped as a huge ellipse. Bryan ducked down and rammed the pistol into Lankau’s side the moment the ignition was switched off. Now his life depended solely on his alertness. If this was a trap, the attack could come from any direction.

‘Take it easy, you coward!’ Lankau grumbled, opening the door. ‘People only come around here to harvest or to hunt.’

Already before they reached the living room Bryan struck his hostage so hard on the neck with the pistol butt that he toppled over. The room was incredibly ugly. At least 500 deer antlers decorated the walls as proof of Lankau’s ingrained hunting instinct. There were rows of carved plate racks, thick books, hunting knives and old rifles, heavy oak furniture with striped upholstery, and murky paintings with largely identical and predictable motifs displaying a wealth of nature scenes and dead animals.

The smell was musty. People didn’t come here every day.

The limp figure in front of Bryan lay still for only a moment. Bryan struck him again. It was important that he didn’t regain consciousness right away.

Then Bryan stood for a long time, listening. Apart from dogs barking in the distance and the whir of tyres down on the main road, everything in and around the house was quiet.

They were alone.

An elongated shed stretched the entire length of the yard. Here too there were antlers, flayed hides, skulls, daggers and knives in all shapes and sizes.

The whole back wall was a veritable hardware store, its shelves bulging with paint cans, wallpaper remains, glue pots,
and boxes of fittings, nails and screws. There were also bundles of twine of the type once used for binding sheaves of grain at harvest time.

Bryan tied Lankau firmly to a high-backed chair. He used a whole ball of twine before he felt confident that it would prevent any likely attempt by Lankau to tear himself loose.

Although he was bound uncomfortably and crookedly, Lankau appeared quite unconcerned when he finally woke up. He looked around and merely noted that his arms and legs were tied. Then he turned his head towards Bryan and waited. For that brief moment he looked old.

The corners of Lankau’s mouth almost reached down to his ample chin. But his eyes were ice-cold and expectant. Bryan turned around and stared straight into the glass eyes of a stag. Two of the malingerers had risked their lives trying to catch and kill him on that winter night in 1944. They’d no doubt had their reasons, but Bryan had never been able to understand what made them act the way they did. And it had nearly cost him his life.

That was a mistake he wouldn’t make again.

‘Tell me everything,’ he said. ‘If you value your life, tell me everything.’

‘What is “everything”?’ The big man was breathing with some difficulty. ‘So that you can get hold of our money?’ He grunted with incomprehension. ‘You won’t be able to find it, anyway. It’s not exactly lying around this house in small chests.’

‘Money? What money? I don’t give a damn about you and your money.’ Bryan turned around and looked Lankau straight in the face. ‘You think it’s money I’m after? Has it been about money the whole time?’ He took a step towards the broad-faced man. ‘Is there really that much?’ Bryan stopped and looked calmly at Lankau, who hadn’t batted an eye. He looked like a businessman negotiating. If so, he’d unwittingly ventured into Bryan’s domain. He leaned over the bound man and stared
straight at him. ‘I don’t lack money, Lankau. Your piddling amount would probably be just about enough to feed my household pets. If you ever want to see your family again, now’s the time to pull yourself together. Tell me what happened then, and tell me what’s happened since.’ Bryan sat down opposite Lankau and aimed the pistol at his good eye. ‘I think you should start at the beginning. Start with the hospital.’

‘The hospital!’ There was no mistaking his scorn. ‘I don’t feel like going into it. If it had been up to me, we’d have killed you there. That’s all there is to say about that.’

‘But why? Why didn’t you just leave me in peace? How could I have harmed you? I was simulating, just like you.’

‘You could’ve done exactly what you did. You could have vanished! And if you’d wanted to, you could also have betrayed the rest of us.’

‘But I didn’t. What would I have gained from that?’

‘You could have gone after that railway car, you swine!’ Lankau hissed, through clenched teeth.

‘I didn’t hear you; say it again.’ Bryan took a step back. Then Lankau spat at him, his face radiating contempt. The clumsy attempt left spit running down his chin.

At that moment Bryan aimed the pistol and shot so close to Lankau’s face that the barrel flame singed the eyebrow over his good eye. Lankau stared wildly at Bryan, turned his head and tried to comprehend the sight of the almost invisible hole in the back of the chair, a couple of inches from his cheekbone.

‘If you don’t start telling me
now
what’s happened since, I’ll kill you.’ Bryan raised the pistol again and continued, ‘I know Kröner is here in Freiburg. I know where he lives. I’ve spoken with his stepdaughter Mariann. I’ve seen him together with his new wife and little boy, and I know his comings and goings around town. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m pretty sure he will!’

Instead of turning his head to look at his tormentor, Lankau sank down in his chair. The fact that his kidnapper knew
Kröner’s movements and whereabouts seemed to shake him up more than the shot. Then, apparently having collected himself, he raised his head.

‘Where do you want me to begin?’ Lankau asked dispassionately. He looked at the man opposite him. The man was a mystery to him. He was resting the Kenju on the back of his other hand, safety catch downward, sitting still. Lankau prayed it would stay like that.

Right now the situation seemed quite hopeless. Lankau winced. His underarms were throbbing.

If the man opposite him was telling the truth, he could know nothing about Peter Stich’s role or background. And that was a good thing. If they were to gain the upper hand, perhaps help should come from that quarter. Despite his frailty, Stich could be a worthy opponent for Arno von der Leyen.

In all games you must set out to win time. It’s the first main rule. Arno von der Leyen would get his story.

The second basic rule is to keep your opponent at bay until you’ve found his weakness. For Lankau, this was yet to come. A person’s greatest weakness was often to be found in the motive underlying his actions. The question was, where should Lankau look? Was von der Leyen avaricious or vindictive? Time would show.

But the third and most important rule in all games is to keep the size and strength of your own weapons secret as long as possible. Therefore he mustn’t mention Peter Stich’s true role or identity.

Maybe Arno von der Leyen had heard about the Postman during the long nights in the hospital. But he couldn’t know Peter Stich and the Postman were one and the same person, for the simple reason that the latter had revealed himself at a time when von der Leyen was in shock treatment.

Bearing these three precautions in mind, Lankau could set about telling his story. He pursed his lips and studied his opponent at length. After a sufficiently long silence his nemesis leaned forward and broke the invisible barrier between them.

‘You can start with the Rhine,’ he said, trying to fix Lankau’s gaze as if a kind of intimacy had arisen between them. ‘I thought you were finished there. Dead and gone and vanished from the face of the earth. Tell me what happened afterwards,’ von der Leyen said, nodding encouragement.

Lankau straightened up a bit, scrutinizing his oppressor closely for the first time. The youthful muscularity was gone; his body had deteriorated. Had he not been tied up he could quickly get the better of him. Lankau tested the strength of the twine once more and cautiously pressed his knuckles down into the armrest. ‘What happened afterwards …? Yeah, what
did
happen?’ Von der Leyen moved closer to him and nodded again as Lankau replied. ‘First and foremost, I had a hole in the side of my chest and had lost the one eye.’ The man opposite him showed no reaction. Lankau pressed his knuckles into the armrest again. ‘That, quite simply, was the damn situation you left me in, you swine, and yet there was nothing at all simple about it! I couldn’t go back to the hospital in that condition, especially not without Dieter Schmidt.’ Lankau’s bad eye narrowed. The skin on his guard’s neck was thin and covered with a network of blood vessels, just beneath the surface. ‘But my hatred of you easily kept me alive, do you realise that, you lout? It was a damn cold winter, wasn’t it? I’ve hardly ever seen so much snow. But Schwarzwald’s embrace is merciful. After two days I knew I would survive. Every farm or labourer’s shack has a shed or outdoor pantry in those parts.’ Lankau smiled. ‘So I managed – despite the dog patrols they sent after us. But it was bit harder for those who remained behind, you see. Especially Gerhart Peuckert.’ Lankau noted with satisfaction how von der Leyen flinched a trifle. An attentiveness he’d been trying to conceal stood out revealingly. The game had begun.

His opponent’s weakness was in the process of being exposed.

During the hour that followed, Lankau relived the past. The veil was drawn aside.

Lankau registered Arno von der Leyen’s every reaction and movement. He left nothing of importance out of his account apart from the identity of the Postman, which was never mentioned. He omitted some events and replaced them with others, where necessary.

But the story never strayed far from the truth.

When Vonnegut woke up that morning in late November, he discovered to his horror that three men on his floor were missing. He ran from room to room, tearing his hair, but touching nothing. The open windows in two of the rooms spoke for themselves. All the remaining patients lay in bed, unconcerned and smiling as always, in anticipation of the washbasins being brought in, followed by breakfast. Calendar Man even stood up and made him a slight bow.

Less than ten minutes later the security guards turned up. They were savage, uncomprehending, and in a rage. Even the doctors had to submit to brutal questioning, as if they were criminals or responsible for what had happened. The four remaining patients in Lankau’s room were separated from one another for a couple of days and then brought down one by one to the treatment room below. Here they were interrogated, beaten with a cat-o’-nine-tails, and tortured with whatever instruments were available. The longer it took to make the torturers feel convinced of their innocence, the more severe the torture became. It had taken a particularly long time with Gerhart Peuckert. Although he had a high rank in the security forces – the SD – the chief interrogator showed no signs of collegial understanding. No one escaped – not Peter Stich, Kröner or Calendar Man. Even the inanimate general on the opposite side of the corridor was brought down. After some hours they let him go. He never uttered a word.

After that Gerhart Peuckert collapsed, and during the days that followed they thought he was going to die.

Then the crisis passed and he showed signs of recovery. Apart from the physical after effects of the torture, everything returned to normal. Neither Gerhart, the weepy-eyed Calendar Man, nor any of the others could explain to their oppressors what had happened to the three missing patients.