Private Berlin (6 page)

DIETRICH WATCHED THE figure move away from him toward the rear of the war memorial and calculated his speed. When he thought he had it right,
he headed off at a slant to the walker, weaving through the sarcophagi and losing sight of his quarry for several minutes.

The high commissar stopped on the north side of the statue of the victorious Soviet and the German child. The rain had slowed,
so he could hear the slap of the man’s feet coming long before he spotted him.

“Oberst?” Dietrich said. “Colonel? Can I have a moment of your time?”

The colonel was old, in his eighties at least, but his bearing was autocratic, a man used to giving orders and having them
carried out. And he had a steel-blue penetrating stare that slashed all over the high commissar before a look of disgust curled
his lip. He did not slow his pace, and tried to get by him.

Dietrich reached out and grabbed the older man by the elbow. “I need to talk. I need your help. Your advice.”

“You need my help?” the colonel laughed spitefully and wrenched his arm free with surprising strength. “For years you want
nothing to do with your own father, and now, out of nowhere, after what, ten years, you need?”

For a moment, Dietrich felt as sick as he’d claimed to be earlier in the afternoon. His stomach ached and he was bombarded
by a sense of claustrophobia that he had not felt since the last time he’d spoken with his father.

“I’m on a case,” Dietrich said.

“Yes,” the colonel said with mild contempt. “You are a police officer.”

“Hauptkommissar,” Dietrich said, feeling old anger stirring in him. “I just need to rule a few things out.”

“About what,
Hauptkommissar?
”

It had begun to rain again in earnest. His father’s hood was down, but the old man showed no bother.

Dietrich hesitated, and then said, “I need you to tell me what you know about certain ancient rumors.”

The colonel turned suspicious. “What kind of ancient rumors?”

“About the old auxiliary slaughterhouse near Ahrensfelde.”

Something cracked in the old man’s expression.

But it sealed tight a moment later. “I don’t know anything about it. And neither should you.”

Dietrich said, “I have reason to believe someone might have been murdered in there. Assaulted certainly.”

“Blood but no body then?”

“A piece of skin but no body. And animal blood. Lots of it. We’re searching the place now. Are we going to find anything?”

The colonel blinked at raindrops that hung from his lashes, and then said, “It could be squatters fighting.”

“No evidence of that yet.”

“Then I can’t tell you.”

Dietrich did not believe him. He’d understood at a relatively young age that the more in control his father seemed, the more
likely he was to be lying through his teeth.

“I’ve got a life, Colonel. A position. A reputation. People who count on me.”

“People who don’t know who you really are.” His father snorted in derision, and then soured further. “In all honesty, Hans,
I don’t care about your life, your position, your reputation, or your people.

“And in case I did not tell you this the last time I saw you, when I think of you—and that is admittedly a rare occurrence—I
think of you as an utter disappointment. Your actions today have not changed my assessment.”

With that, the colonel turned and took up his brisk evening walk as if he’d never paused.

Dietrich’s throat flamed with anger.

But his stomach churned with fear.

THE APARTMENT BUILDING where Mattie Engel lived on Schliemannstrasse south of Prenzlauer Allee was painted bright green and red and white. The building
stood next to a
preschool painted with images of kids on tricycles and others playing with dump trucks.

Tom Burkhart slowed to a stop on wet cobblestones in front of the school. Mattie had Socrates on her lap. They’d gone back
to Chris’s apartment, found the cat, secured the place, and tried to call Dietrich with the news.

But the high commissar had not answered his cell phone, and Mattie had not left a message. He’d find out soon enough. She
reached for the door handle.

“You going to be okay?” Burkhart asked.

“As long as I never get in a car with you again, I’ll be fine.”

“What?”

“We’re lucky we’re not in jail.”

“Nonsense,” Burkhart said. “I had total control. But do you?”

Mattie hesitated and said, “I’ve got to sleep. Chris could be out there somewhere alive and I’m going to sleep.”

Burkhart’s tone softened. “You’ll function better if you do. I’ll meet you at Dietrich’s office first thing in the morning.”

Mattie nodded, climbed from the BMW, and hurried to her front door with the cat in her arms. Burkhart waited until she was
inside and then drove off. She took the elevator to the third floor and walked to her door. She paused, hearing a television
blaring inside and smelling onions frying.

She looked at the cat. How am I going to do this? What do I say?

Socrates just stared at her, blinking. Then he meowed.

Mattie stuck her key in the lock and went in to an open area with a couch, two chairs, and a coffee table. There was a counter
at the back that looked into the kitchen where Mattie’s aunt Cäcilia, a stout woman in her seventies, bustled about cooking
Sunday dinner.

Aunt Cäcilia had lived on and off with Mattie since the Berlin Wall fell. She had watched Mattie grow into womanhood, and
she’d cared for Mattie’s mother as she died. Mattie did not know what she’d do without her.

From a room opposite the kitchen, the television got louder with the roar of a crowd and an announcer screaming,
“Goal Cassiano! Goal Cassiano!”

A boy’s voice pitched in, screaming: “Goal Cassiano! Goal Berlin!”

Socrates leaped from Mattie’s arms and scampered toward the commotion. Mattie followed the cat, worming her arms from her
rain jacket and calling, “Niklas? I’m home.”

“Hello, dear,” her aunt called from the kitchen. “I’ll have your dinner ready in a second.”

“Thanks,” Mattie said, and looked around the corner into the small room opposite the kitchen. Her nine-year-old son bounced
on the couch, watching the replay and yelling, “Goal Cassiano!” when the striker drove the ball into the upper-right corner
of the net.

The cat leaped into Niklas’s lap.

A whippet-lean boy with large, welcoming eyes, Niklas looked shocked and then even more overjoyed than he’d been celebrating
Cassiano’s goal.

“Socrates!” he cried, and then hugged the cat. “Where’d you come from?”

“I brought him,” Mattie said. “I wish you’d get that excited to see me.”

Niklas finally seemed to notice her. He grinned. “My mommy!”

Mattie went to him. She hugged him close to her and petted Socrates’s head. “Missed you,” she said.

Niklas pressed his head into her belly. “Missed you too. But you should have seen it, Mommy—Cassiano. He’s…like no one on
Berlin ever.”

Mattie looked over at the television, studying the Brazilian who was being shown in close-up. Did
he
have something to do with Chris’s disappearance?

Niklas’s smile disappeared. He looked down at the cat. “Why is Socrates here?” His smile returned before she could answer.
“Is Chris here?”

Mattie was amazed sometimes at how intuitive Niklas was, one of those people who seemed to sense hidden emotion. Then again,
that’s how you grow up when you don’t have a father.

“I’ve got some troubling news,” Mattie said at last.

Niklas’s face tightened. “You’re working next weekend again?”

Mattie hesitated, still unsure of what to say and how to say it.

Niklas got up, dropping the cat and barging by his mother. “You promised we could go to the lake and canoe again. It’ll be
too cold soon!”

“Niklas!” Mattie said sharply. “It’s Chris. That’s why Socrates is here.”

Her son stopped and looked back at her, his face suddenly pale and puzzled as the cat arched and rubbed against his ankles.
“What?”

“He’s missing, Niklas. Chris is missing.”

Niklas appeared even more confused. “What does that mean?”

“No one knows where he is,” Mattie said, deciding not to tell him about the chip that was found. “And he’s been gone a long
time without anyone hearing from him. Too long.”

Niklas picked up Socrates, held him tight to his chest, and asked, “Who was he with? What was he working on?”

“I don’t know.”

“You used to know everything. You always knew what he was doing.”

“Niklas, I…”

Niklas’s expression turned bitter. “If you hadn’t said you weren’t going to marry him, you might know where Chris is. He’d
probably be right here watching the game with me!”

Mattie’s son burst into tears and stormed off down the hall toward his bedroom, holding on to Socrates like he was his last
friend on earth.

MATTIE’S AUNT CÄCILIA witnessed the entire episode. Upset, rubbing her hands on her apron, she shouted, “Niklas, come back here. You come back
here and apologize to your mother right now!”

But Niklas slammed the door to his bedroom shut behind him.

Mattie put her hand on her aunt’s shoulder. “Let him go. He’s right. Chris and I used to share everything. I would have known.”

Her aunt looked ready to argue, but then caught the tension in Mattie. “But he’s just missing, right? Couldn’t he have gone
on a vacation?”

“No. Definitely not a vacation.”

“Then…”

“I need to go talk to Niklas.”

Her aunt nodded. “And then you come eat. Schnitzel with lemon zest.”

Mattie kissed Cäcilia on her cheek and went down the hall to her son’s room. She knocked. He didn’t answer. She twisted the
knob. Locked.

“Nicky? Can I come in?”

Several moments later she heard the lock freed. She went into the bedroom of her soccer-mad son. A big poster of Cassiano
hung above his bed.

Niklas climbed back onto his bed and curled himself around Socrates, who purred. Mattie sat on the bed next to them and rubbed
her son’s back.

“You have the right to be upset,” she said.

For several moments, Niklas showed no reaction, but then he asked, “Is Chris alive, Mom?”

“We have to believe so.”

“And if he’s not?”

Mattie did not answer.

“Why don’t you still love him, Mom?”

Mattie’s lower lip trembled. “I do love Chris. And I love you, and we’re going to get through this.”

“And get him back?”

“If it’s in my power. Now it’s time for pajamas and toothbrushes.”

“No book?”

“Aunt C will read to you,” she promised. “I’m starving.”

The cat meowed, squirmed from Niklas’s hold, and pranced to the door.

“Looks like he’s hungry too,” Mattie said.

“There’s still some dry food that Chris left.”

“I know where it is.”

She left her son’s room, returned to the kitchen, and saw that her aunt had already found the cat food. It was in a bowl next
to another filled with water. Socrates went to the food and ate hungrily.

“And your supper is on the table,” Cäcilia said.

Mattie kissed the old woman’s cheek again. “Niklas’s almost ready for you to read a little
Harry Potter
to him.”

“I’ll need to find my glasses then,” Cäcilia said, pulling off her apron.

Mattie went to the table and had her aunt’s incomparable schnitzel with lemon zest and twice-baked potatoes, a salad, and
a cold Berliner Weisse. After she’d finished, cleared the table, and washed the dishes, she went into the refrigerator in
search of a second beer. She needed it.

She popped the top. Her cell rang. It was Katharina Doruk.

“Burkhart called in and told me what happened,” Katharina said.

“We’re all right,” Mattie replied.

“So he said,” Katharina answered snippily. “I would have rather heard that from you, Mattie. You’re lucky the two of you weren’t
arrested. A high-speed chase? You’re not cops.”

Mattie sighed. “I know. It was the heat of the moment, and then I was too exhausted to call. I needed to take Socrates home
and tell Niklas what happened.”

“How’s he taking it?”

“He’s got Socrates.”

“And you?”

Mattie shook inside. She’d not allowed herself to reflect at all since arriving at the slaughterhouse. Now it threatened to
spill out of her in a torrent.

“You want me to come over?” Katharina asked.

“I’ll be okay.”

“Burkhart said the guy on the motorcycle got the hard drive from Chris’s laptop,” Katharina said.

“Looked that way.”

“Nothing else?”

“The place was wrecked,” Mattie replied. “It was a little hard to figure—”

She remembered the crumpled paper she’d retrieved from Chris’s wastebasket just before the burglar attacked her. “Hold on
a second.”

Mattie put the phone on speaker, dug out the paper, and unfolded it. She scanned the list in Chris’s distinctive scrawl. She
smiled, but with little joy.

“Looks like the burglar missed something,” she said.

“WHAT?” KATHARINA ASKED.

“A to-do list that Chris wrote,” Mattie said, picking up her phone, the paper, and the beer and heading toward her bedroom.
“It’s dated last Tuesday and says he had an appointment with Hermann Krüger at eleven in the morning that day.”

“Not the wife?”

“No, it says H. Krüger, and it has an address on Potsdamer Platz, the Sony building, I think.”

“So, what, he meets with Hermann, tells him he knows he has multiple mistresses and consorts with prostitutes and…?”

“You’re assuming too much, Kat,” Mattie snapped. “Krüger’s name’s just here on a list. So is Cassiano’s. He was to meet with
him at three that afternoon. And he has a third name here, Pavel.”

“Maxim Pavel?” Katharina asked, suddenly excited.

“Doesn’t say,” Mattie replied. “Why?”

“Because Gabriel was able to trace a series of phone calls Chris made last Monday and Tuesday to a Maxim Pavel. He’s a Russian
ex-pat. Owns two or three nightclubs, including Cabaret.”

“The drag-queen show?” Mattie asked.

“Very successful business according to Gabriel. But there’s more. He evidently has ties to Russian organized crime.”

Mattie checked her watch. “It’s only eight o’clock; we could—”

“We already checked,” Katharina said. “Pavel’s away in Italy. Won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

Mattie thought about that. “We’re going to need reinforcements.”

“Way ahead of you again,” Katharina said. “I’ve called in Brecht from Amsterdam, and Jack Morgan’s on his way from Los Angeles
in the Private jet.”

“I’ll be at work by seven,” Mattie promised and hung up.

She put the beer, the list, and her phone on her nightstand, and then went in to kiss Niklas good night.

“I’m praying for Chris,” Niklas said after she’d shut off the light.

“I am too, sweetheart,” Mattie said.

She closed the door, told her aunt good night, and went into her bedroom. After showering and putting on her nightgown, she
got in bed with the beer. She almost turned on the television, but then got out her laptop.

She signed in to her Private e-mail account, and found a note from the Countess von Mühlen’s grandmother, thanking her for
her prompt, efficient work. Mattie replied that she thought Sophia was just a sweet, mixed-up kid and wished her well.

Mattie quit out of the mailbox before she thought to sign in to her personal account. She hadn’t looked at that e-mail account
in well over a week, but then again the only person to use it regularly was…

Amid the spam, Mattie spotted an e-mail from Chris with a date stamp of the prior Wednesday evening at approximately 10 p.m.
She opened it and saw only an MPEG attachment. She clicked on it.

Chris’s face appeared on her screen. He was in his apartment, in the alcove, looking weary, and sounding partially drunk,
with Socrates in his lap.

“Hi, Mattie. I’ve tried to respect your wishes and not contact you, but…” He stopped, looking away from the camera.

He cleared his throat, gazed at the lens again, and said, “Mattie, I’ve gotten on to something, and I feel that if I can see
this through, then it’ll be better, better for me, and better for you, and for Niklas.”

Chris’s eyes glistened, watering with tears. “These past few weeks have been the worst I can remember since I was a kid. I
miss you, Mattie. I miss Niklas, too. And Aunt Cäcilia. Call me? Or send me a message back? However you want to contact me,
I’ll be waiting. I love you both. I always will.”

The clip ended and went dark.

Mattie collapsed into sobs so loud that Aunt Cäcilia came running.