Private Berlin (21 page)

MATTIE WALKED OUT of the methadone clinic with Ilona Frei, who was glassy-eyed and moving slowly with a contented expression.

But Mattie craned her head all around, looking everywhere, knowing that the clinic was a choke point in Ilona’s life, a place
where she could be counted on to show up, a place where someone like Falk might try to attack her.

But they made it to the car safely.

“Do you think Burkhart will find the records?” Ilona asked.

Mattie wanted to say that she doubted it, but she replied, “I’ve learned that he’s a very determined man.”

Ilona blinked several times. “I heard they were shredding everything they could at the end. It’s what started it all. The
end I mean. Do you remember?”

“Other than Niklas’s birth, they were the greatest days of my life.”

“People were dancing and singing,” Ilona recalled as Mattie pulled away from the curb. “Ilse and I left the orphanage with
Chris and Artur and Kiefer and Greta and came to Berlin. We wanted to see what was happening for ourselves.”

Mattie remembered everything about those days, how extraordinary it felt to be sixteen with everything suddenly new and everything
possible.

She started to sing the Jesus Jones song, “Right Here, Right Now.”

“‘A woman on the radio talks about revolution…’”

Ilona joined in with her.
“‘When it’s already passed her by…’”

They stopped singing. Their smiles sagged.

In a faraway voice Ilona said, “When we got to Berlin, I saw the crowds and got scared. I kept looking for him in the crowds.
For Falk. Chris tried to convince me that we would never see him again.

“But I think he was there somewhere that night, Mattie. I could feel him. Everyone else was so happy. But I felt like he was
right there as the wall was coming down. Even though we’d been freed from the state, I knew I would never be safe from Falk.
Until yesterday, I hadn’t seen him in almost thirty years, but he was in my thoughts constantly. Falk, he ate at my mind.
He…”

Mattie glanced over to see tears streaming down Ilona’s face again as she said, “I didn’t know who I was half the time; I
invented things, lives. I…”

She started to rub her hands as if washing them and began a slow rocking motion. Mattie wanted to pull over and calm her,
but then her cell phone rang.

“Engel,” she said.

“I’ve been at it all night, Mattie,” Dr. Gabriel said. “I tried every database I could think of. There’s no Kiefer Braun in
Germany that comes close to matching our guy.”

Mattie’s heart sank. “What? Is he dead? Left the country?”

“No, he’s here in Berlin,” the scientist replied. “He changed his name. Three times.”

I LOOK IN the mirror as I apply the last bit of makeup.

Sadly, I think, this may be the last mask in my superb collection of original, onetime creations.

When I’m finished with my disguise, I return to my masks, letting my eyes linger on old favorites—the Dogons and the Indonesians—and
new friends like the Chokwe and Jaguar masks.

But as I know I must, I leave them all in favor of Chris Schneider’s Private ID and badge, doctored now with my disguised
face in place of his.

I gather up the other things I need: rope and parachute cord. Cigarettes, and a little something to light them with. A screwdriver.
Leather gloves. Two pistols equipped with suppressors, and six magazines of ammunition. And four passports and supporting
documentation for four different identities. I also have a heavy-duty trunk with wheels. It’s filled with enough cash and
gold coins to allow me to live well for a very long time, a nest egg amassed and set aside years ago in the event that I ever
had to leave my beloved Berlin for good.

And now here I am, my friends, my fellow Berliners, about to shed my skin and flee my beautiful city of scars forever.

I smile bittersweetly as I return to my private place one last time.

I look around at what I’ve built for myself, the collage of my life, thinking of all the events and experiences that have
changed me, made me a different person than the one I once was—certainly better spoken, more calculating, and slyer than that
bloodthirsty young bumpkin.

I check my watch. It’s almost two. I shut off the light and close the door.

After one more errand, I’m off to school.

After the trouble I’ve gone to, I can’t take the chance of missing little Niklas, now can I? Hmmm?

WHEN MATTIE AND Katharina Doruk followed Inspector Weigel into a darkened observation room at Kripo headquarters around quarter to three
that afternoon, Hermann Krüger was sitting at an interrogation table on the other side of a two-way mirror.

The billionaire was an extremely fit man in his early fifties who wore a €5,000 black suit and had skin so smooth that Mattie
swore he was wearing a little makeup.

At the same time, Krüger’s posture was ramrod straight, and the bearing of his head was both imperious and enraged, as if
he were disgusted to even be in such a predicament and eager to rip off the head of whomever had had the gall to summon him
to Berlin Kripo.

Krüger’s lawyer, a slight, intense man named Richter, must have picked up on his client’s aura, because he nudged him and
then whispered something in the billionaire’s ear just as the door to the interrogation room opened.

High Commissar Dietrich shambled in wearing a rumpled suit and holding a bulging manila file under one arm and a coffee in
the opposite hand. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair in disarray, and Mattie thought his skin looked as sallow as candle
wax.

“See?” Mattie muttered. “I’ll bet his head is just pounding.”

Inspector Weigel frowned, but then she sighed and nodded before replying, “I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt
and let him prove you wrong.”

“We’re not wrong, Inspector,” Mattie said. “You heard—”

“Just the same,” Inspector Weigel replied curtly before turning her attention to Dietrich, whose hand trembled as he set the
coffee on the table.

He spilled a little, apologized, and got a napkin, making a show of cleaning it, moving so slowly that Hermann Krüger’s patience
was tested and Richter, his lawyer, once again had to whisper in his ear.

At last Dietrich sat and with mock cheer said: “We’re hoping you can clear up a few things for us, Hermann.”

Krüger’s cheeks flushed. He wasn’t used to having someone of his station in life addressed with such familiarity by someone
like Dietrich.

“Herr Krüger wants to cooperate, High Commissar,” Richter said.

“Good. That’s fine. But I think we’ll let your client talk from now on.”

The billionaire cleared his throat. “What do you want to know?”

“For starters, where have you been?”

Krüger hesitated, and then replied: “I can’t discuss that for another hour or so. There would be severe financial consequences
if it were to come out too soon.”

A BEAT OF silence passed before Dietrich growled, “I don’t care about financial implications. There are legal implications if you don’t
start talking to me. Think murder charges, Hermann. Did you kill your wife?”

Krüger looked outraged and sputtered, “I most certainly did not.”

“You most certainly had reason to,” the high commissar said in such an agreeable and inviting conversational tone that Mattie
found herself thinking differently of Dietrich. Despite his faults, the man was a master interrogator.

In short, quick succession, he hit the billionaire with the mistresses, the prostitutes, and the Private Berlin investigation
into his life.

“You found out that Private Berlin was looking at your extramarital activities on Agnes’s behalf,” Dietrich said. “You decided
word of your perversion would harm your reputation, so you killed Christoph Schneider and then your wife in revenge, and you
fed Schneider’s body to rats in a secret basement in an old, abandoned slaughterhouse in Ahrensfelde.”

Krüger got beet-red and choked out, “That’s—that’s—”

His attorney snarled, “Slanderous, High Commissar. My client did no such thing. He had absolutely no involvement in his wife’s
murder or Schneider’s.”

The billionaire found his voice. “And I have no idea what goddamn slaughterhouse you’re talking about!”

“Your stepson thinks you killed your wife,” Dietrich said calmly. “Or had her killed.”

“He would, the little leeching bastard,” Krüger said evenly. “I repeat, I had nothing to do with Agnes’s death.”

“And yet, you did not rush home when you heard about it,” the high commissar remarked.

“As I understood it, she was dead,” Krüger replied. “Not sick. Not dying. Dead. I was upset, and grief-stricken, but I knew
I could not change that sorry state of affairs, and I had vital business to conclude.”

“With who, Hermann?” Dietrich demanded. “Tell me where you’ve been, and now, or that will be the story presented in your indictment,
the one the press and the bloggers will devour and spit out at the corporate world.”

Krüger acted like he had bugs on his skin. He squirmed and said to his lawyer, “I pay you enough. Make him understand what’s
at stake here.”

Richter checked his watch. “As a matter of fact, I think it’s safe to talk now, Herr Krüger. The markets close in one hour.
As long as the high commissar agrees not to talk about this conversation until four, you’re free to speak.”

Hearing that, Mattie checked her watch. Three o’clock. School was getting out. She flashed on an image of Niklas leaving with
Aunt C, and then returned her attention to the billionaire, who finally looked ready to tell all.

FRIENDS, FELLOW BERLINERS, it’s five past three when my soon-to-be young friend Niklas Engel walks out the front of the John Lennon Gymnasium. He’s
looking for his mother’s aunt. But the poor dear won’t be making an appearance today. I’ve made sure of that.

The boy looks upset. How perfect. I make my move and pull the Mercedes forward and roll down the window. “Niklas?” I call
in an affected Dutch accent. “Niklas Engel?”

I’m holding out my Private Berlin badge and identification and smiling at him. “I’m Daniel Brecht. Your mother’s probably
mentioned me. She asked me to come get you and take you home.”

Niklas looks at me suspiciously. “Where’s my aunt Cäcilia?”

I give him a sad smile. “That’s why your mother asked me to come. Your aunt is sick, very sick. She was taken to the hospital.”

That does it. The dear boy’s defenses drop and, clearly worried, he moves straight to the car door and climbs in, asking,
“What’s wrong with her?”

“They don’t know,” I say. “She collapsed at home and they’re running tests. Now buckle your seat belt.”

Niklas does. Right away. No argument.

What a remarkable boy. So earnest. So obedient.

“Where’s my mom?” Niklas asks as I put the Mercedes in gear and pull away from the school.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “She’ll be joining us shortly.”

Niklas frowns, looks around, and says, “This isn’t the way to my house. Where are we going?”

“A special place,” I say. “A very special place for a very special boy.”

“FOR THE PAST ten days I’ve been in Sweden,” Hermann Krüger announced. “I’ve been staying at a hunting lodge near Östersund that belongs
to the Swedish financier Olle Larsson. Olle and I have been negotiating the sale of my empire. I wished to enjoy the rest
of my life and do some good with my money. I’d hoped Agnes would like to stay with me and help me do good. But the last time
I spoke to her, she told me she wanted a divorce—”

“Not how we heard it,” Dietrich said. “She was staying.”

Krüger shook his head. “She was leaving me.”

“Your stepson says otherwise,” Dietrich replied.

“My stepson is a jackass, High Commissar,” Krüger snapped. “In the meantime, I’ve got pressing things to attend to and unless
you plan to arrest me, I must leave now. Herr Richter will provide you with Herr Larsson’s private number. He and several
of his aides and the staff at the lodge will attest to my whereabouts. Remember, you are sworn to secrecy until four.”

Krüger got to his feet as if the meeting were over. Dietrich did as well, and Mattie could see he looked bewildered at the
sudden turn of events.

But then he regained his footing. “Do you own a Chokwe mask?”

That startled him. “Yes. Why?”

“Have you ever been to the Paradise FKK in Bad Homburg?”

He shrugged. “Once, perhaps. I don’t know.”

“We found the murder weapon in one of your vehicles,” the high commissar said. “I can place you under arrest based solely
on that.”

“The weapon is an obvious attempt to frame Herr Krüger,” the attorney said. “And I don’t see any connection between a Chokwe
mask and an FKK in Bad Homburg. If you’re sure of yourself, arrest Herr Krüger, but rest assured we will sue for damages.
Otherwise, we’re leaving.”

Dietrich hesitated but then said, “I’ll need to know where you’re going, whether you intend to leave the country again.”

“I need to attend to Agnes’s funeral arrangements,” Krüger replied, imperious once more. “Right after I place orders to buy
more shares in my company. With all this talk of murder and takeover, Krüger Industries is undervalued now but will most certainly
jump in price once word of the deal gets out. You should buy, too, High Commissar. I promise you’ll make a killing.”

Mattie watched as the billionaire left the room. His lawyer placed a piece of paper in front of Dietrich and followed.

Inspector Weigel looked at Mattie and sighed. “You were right. Do we do this now or do we wait a little bit?”

“Sooner the better,” Mattie said. “You want him on the defensive.”

Katharina had been silent during the entire interrogation, but now she said, “I just thought of something else.” She headed
toward the door.

“What?” Mattie said. “Where are you going?”

“I have a follow-up question. I’ve got to catch Krüger before he leaves the building.”