Heritage (43 page)

He tried to kiss her, but she pushed him from her. She wasn't frightened. But pity had given way to contempt.

‘Take me home,' she demanded coldly. ‘Take me home right now.'

Her voice cut jarringly through his fantasy. He didn't like her tone at all – how dare she speak to him that way? Ruth would never have done so. And how dare she look at him with an expression of contempt. What right did she have? She was no woman of breeding like Ruth; she was a cheap little Argentine whore who'd led him on.

‘You're not going home, Gabriella,' he said, closing in on her again, ‘until you give me what I want, what you've been promising me for weeks.'

As he grabbed her to him, Gabriella could feel his mouth slobbering at her throat, his hands mauling her body, pulling at her dress, one of the straps breaking. She was repulsed, but she refused to be frightened. She fought back like an alley cat, grabbing his hair by the fistful, squirming in his grasp, trying to knee him in the groin.

‘Get away from me!' she screamed, clawing at his face. She'd gouge his eyes out before she'd allow him to rape her. Her nails raked his skin, drawing blood. ‘Get away from me, you bastard! Get away! You disgust me!'

It was enough to push him over the edge. The whore was disgusted by him? He exploded, insane with rage. He'd kill her.

He let her go, stepping to one side, nimbly avoiding the knee that lashed up at him, and, hauling back his arm, he smashed her in the face with his closed fist as hard as he could.

Her head snapped back and she spun away from him. For a split second, she seemed to hang motionless, her hair splayed like a fan about her. Then she dropped like a sack of wheat and lay motionless on the floor.

He regained his senses as quickly as he'd lost them. He didn't care if he'd killed her – she'd asked for it – but it would present complications if he had.

He knelt beside her, massaging the aching knuckles of his right hand. She moaned, semi-conscious, and raised her head slightly, gagging for breath, spitting out blood and shattered splinters of teeth, her jaw plainly broken. Good, the bitch would live – not that she deserved to.

He fetched a towel from the bathroom and draped it around him to avoid the blood, then slung her over his shoulder.

There was no-one around as he carried her out of the side entrance, just as no-one had seen them arrive.

He drove her to a deserted backstreet in Palermo, not far from her apartment block, and left her moaning on the pavement. She could make her way home from there, or someone could find her – it was no concern of his.

He reviewed the situation on the drive home. It was an unfortunate incident, but he doubted there would be any repercussions he couldn't handle. She certainly wouldn't go to the police – she wouldn't dare. Who would believe her if she did? Her status as a medical student meant nothing; she was a working-class girl from the backstreets of Buenos Aires, just a guttersnipe like the rest of them, and he was a highly respected man with impeccable credentials. She would be laughed at if she made any accusations. The only problem would be her brother. Renaldo would most certainly seek revenge. No matter, Klaus thought, his army-issue Luger remained in perfect working order in the drawer by his bed at all times. He would carry it with him when he ventured out at night from now on. If the man attacked him it would be a pure case of self-defence.

Back at the apartment, the gramophone was scratching. He took the record off the turntable – it was ruined. Just like the last time, he thought, he would have to buy another; ironic how things had come full circle. But it had been stupid of him to liken the Argentine whore to Ruth. There was no comparison, there never had been and there never would be. He must not make that mistake again.

He bathed his bruised knuckles and his face. The scratch marks where she had clawed him were quite evident; he would have to invent an excuse tomorrow – Fritz was bound to make a comment.

 

They came for him shortly after midday: Renaldo Nacimento and six others.

‘Pellegrini, where is he?' Renaldo demanded of the young receptionist behind the counter of the clinic.

The girl was unnerved by the mood of the men. They were plainly out to cause trouble, but she stood her ground. She knew Renaldo, he always greeted her when he made his deliveries and more often than not he flirted with her. She found him very attractive and she'd been hoping for some time he might ask her out. He was being very rude, she thought, no-one referred to the Doctor in such a manner.

‘Doctor Pellegrini is not available,' she said primly, ‘he is in conference with Doctor von Halbach.'

Renaldo made no reply, but strode into the clinic, the others following. The girl called after them to no effect. She picked up the telephone receiver and dialled frantically.

The men barged along the main corridor, past bays where patients waited outside consulting rooms. Curious glances were cast in their direction, muttered whispers exchanged, but no-one attempted to interfere or call for help. It was best not to get involved.

Renaldo knew his way around. He cut through the large storage room that opened onto the rear courtyard of the building where he parked his truck when he made his deliveries. It was also where he delivered the personal supplies to the back door of Fritz von Halbach's office apartment.

‘It appears there's some trouble at reception,' Fritz said icily as he put down the receiver. He rose from his chair behind the desk and crossed through the lounge area to the office door. ‘Perhaps you'd care to tell me what's going on, Umberto,' he said as he locked it.

Fritz von Halbach was very angry. He would probably have to call in the police to evict the men. Attention would be drawn to the clinic and all because of Klaus Henkel and some sordid business involving a girl. He'd scoffed at the man's ridiculous explanation for the scratches on his face. ‘She has long nails, your neighbour's cat,' he'd replied scornfully; he'd heard the rumours. Umberto Pellegrini had been observed leaving clubs with prostitutes, he'd long been told, and he had strongly disapproved. But he'd said nothing. Who was he to tell a man how to live his life? So long as Klaus was discreet and brought no disrepute to the clinic, it was no business of his. But now it appeared the behaviour of Doctor Umberto Pellegrini had brought more than disrepute – it had brought trouble and the possible intervention of the police.

‘What have you done to so incur the wrath of your peasant friend and his accomplices?' he asked.

‘Renaldo?' Klaus rose, startled. He didn't have the Luger. He hadn't expected Renaldo to come after him in broad daylight.

‘He's here. With six other thugs, and they're after your blood.'

Right on cue, there was a pounding of boots on the back door of the apartment and the sound of splintering wood.

Klaus made a dash for the main entrance, fumbling with the lock, as Fritz started dialling the police.

The men charged into the apartment, four of them grabbing Klaus who was halfway out the door. They dragged him back into the room, his arms pinioned behind him, and slammed the door shut. He made no attempt to struggle – he knew he was outnumbered.

‘Put the phone down,' Renaldo said.

Fritz hesitated, but he had no choice. It was outrageous, he thought as he replaced the handpiece. How dare they barge into his office like gangsters in an American film?

‘What do you want?' he demanded peremptorily.

‘Him.' Renaldo pointed to Klaus.

‘And what exactly do you intend to do to Doctor Pellegrini?' Fritz asked, his manner still that of a pompous headmaster.

‘We intend to kill him.'

The four holding Klaus started to propel him towards the back door, but Klaus baulked, turning back to Renaldo and the two men standing either side of him. He knew the two men, he'd got drunk in many a bar with them and had many a passionate philosophical discussion in true Porteno style.

‘Without allowing the condemned man to speak?' He addressed Julio and Manuel, as if appealing to their sense of fair play, but buying time for Fritz to make a move for the weapon which he kept in his desk. ‘Surely I must be given a chance to state my defence.'

‘There will be no talk,' Renaldo cut in. ‘You will say nothing.'

‘Come, come, Renaldo, be reasonable …' Klaus glanced meaningfully at Fritz, but the man made no move for the gun.

In two strides, Renaldo was beside him, the flick knife appearing like magic.

‘One more word and I slice your throat here and now,' he said, the blade pressed against Klaus's carotid artery.

Again Klaus glanced at Fritz, but Fritz was silent. Why was the man just standing there? Why the hell didn't he do something?

Fritz von Halbach remained watching in silence as they dragged Klaus from the room. He could have stopped them – a loaded Walther semi-automatic handgun sat in the top drawer of the desk right beside him – but he'd made no move for it from the moment the men had arrived. A shooting in his office was the last thing he wanted.

When he heard the kitchen door slam shut, he sat and dialled a phone number. Not the police this time. Whatever rough justice the men sought and for whatever reason, it was obviously not their intention to involve the police. Fritz was thankful. Police intervention was not in the best interests of Odessa and the Rosario Medical Clinic.

 

They marched Klaus down to the wharf several blocks away. They'd tied his wrists behind him and Renaldo's knife dug into his ribs. The people they passed stood to one side, some turning their backs. To Klaus, who was searching for an avenue of escape, the streets seemed ominously quiet. He noticed that El Pelicano was closed, even though it was lunchtime; from behind the drawn red-checked curtains of the
cantina
he could see Marcello and Claudia Coluzzi watching them as they walked by. It was obvious the whole
barrio
knew he was condemned and that it agreed with the judgement.

At the harbour dockside, among the huge crates and containers awaiting collection by sea, a group of workers was waiting, at least a dozen or more. Judge, jury and executioner, Klaus thought.

The men released him, and he looked about for a direction in which to run, struggling with the rope that bound his wrists. If he could free his hands at least he could take some of the bastards with him, he thought.

The workers formed a circle around him.

‘Here are your Porteno friends, Umberto.'

Pocketing his flick knife, Renaldo stepped into the circle, the men making way for him, then closing ranks again. ‘Those you so wish to claim as your brothers.' He pushed Klaus in the chest and he staggered back, colliding with José. ‘Say hello to your brother.'

José spun Klaus about and smashed him hard in the solar plexus. He doubled over. Then José pushed him back into the centre where he struggled to regain his breath, snarling, enraged, about to charge headfirst at them like a wounded bull, prepared to fight to the last.

But Renaldo had no intention of allowing Umberto Pellegrini to die with dignity.

‘You wish to learn our ways, Umberto? I have another lesson for you. Porteno justice.' Renaldo's fist smashed into his face and Klaus felt his nose crumple and his vision fade. He sank to his knees, only to be hauled to his feet by Renaldo and pushed across the circle to the next man.

On and on it went. From Renaldo to another of the men and back again, the blows brutal and unrelenting until Klaus could no longer be hauled to his feet. Then the boots came in.

‘Enough!' Renaldo called a halt to the proceedings. He wanted Umberto alive for the final moment. The men stood back and he knelt, the flick knife once again in his hand.

‘Can you hear me, Umberto?' He leaned over the bloodied face which was barely recognisable and hissed the words. ‘This is what Porteno brothers do to those who harm one of their own. And this,' he said, pressing the tip of the blade against Klaus's stomach, ‘this is for my sister.'

Klaus screamed in agony as the blade dug deep.

Renaldo twisted the knife once, then withdrew it, and nodded to the men.

They picked up the body, still writhing, and carried it to the edge of the wharf.

‘Die in pain, Umberto!' Renaldo yelled. Then he gave the order, and they threw the bloodied carcass of Klaus Henkel into the harbour waters twenty feet below.

 

‘You are a liability to us, Klaus.'

It was the first time in well over two years that Klaus had heard his real name uttered out loud. He couldn't see who it was – his face was swathed in bandages after yet another surgical procedure. He'd undergone many in the past two months and the pain was constant. He knew the voice, however. It was Fritz von Halbach. Fritz had been tending him regularly as he'd been struggling for survival in the upstairs surgery above the clinic. He could hear others in the room too, the shuffling of feet and the murmur of voices. Several he recognised and he knew that this was a gathering of the Nazi leaders. He wondered what it meant. Through the pain he tried to concentrate on what von Halbach was saying.

‘We considered it wise to save you – the discovery of your body would have invited enquiry. But you are no longer one of us. Tomorrow you will be taken to a safe house where you will remain for several months while you heal, and then you will leave Argentina. You will be provided with a new identity and funds, after which we will wash our hands of you. You will never contact Odessa again. If you do, we will kill you.'

Fritz paused as if to let the words sink in, and Klaus expected one of the others to make some comment. But there was none. The decision had been unanimous, there was nothing to discuss. Then Fritz continued.

‘You must not attempt to speak – the muscles of your face must remain immobile. Raise your hand to indicate you understand the full implications of what I've said.'