The Good Thief's Guide to Berlin (17 page)

Wonderful.

“Am I in danger?” I asked.

“What else did you expect?”

I shrugged. “A harmless bit of burglary? A nice, uncontroversial way to make a little money?”

She pouted and shook her head, as if she doubted anyone could be quite so naive. “How little?” she asked.

I told her that, too. I couldn’t see the harm in it.

“And tell me, how profound is your sense of patriotism?”

“Excuse me?”

She smiled again. The pearly rictus was every bit as forced and untrustworthy as before. “Let me make this as simple as I can. Find what’s been stolen from the ambassador, bring it to me, and I’ll double your fee.”

I stared at her. “You’re serious?”

“Do I look like I engage in jokes?”

Hmm. Not good ones, in any event. I rubbed my chin, thinking it over.

“Listen, there’s no pretending that your offer isn’t a lot more attractive than the one the Russian crew presented me with. But suppose I accept. They won’t like it. And neither will Freddy.”

“Go on.”

“Can you offer me protection? Would I have to defect?”

“Writers.” She tutted. “Always so dramatic. I can give you a window of protection. That’s all.”

“Huh. And how big is this window?”

“Twenty-four hours.”

“And after that?”

“You’ll need to leave Berlin.”

“Right.” The car came to a sudden halt outside my building. So sudden that I nearly ended up in my impromptu date’s lap. “And if I refuse your offer?”

“Then maybe I’ll start thinking how our Russian friends took the better approach. Maybe Duane’ll help you to change your mind.”

Oh, boy.

“Then we have a deal,” I said, and extended my hand rather hastily. “Would you care to tell me your name, at least?”

“My name is Nancy Symons,” she said, studiously ignoring my offer of a handshake. “Duane will pass you a card with a number to call. Contact us as soon as you have the package.”

“Fine,” I said, lowering my hand and reaching for the door lever. “No problem.”

But not even I was thick enough to believe that was really the case.

TWENTY-TWO

I had to force myself not to glance back as I climbed the steps to the front door of my building. The last thing I wanted was for Nancy to see how intimidated I was feeling.

I kept my eyes fixed stubbornly ahead as I fitted my key in the lock. Then I darted inside and kicked the door closed behind me and let go of a long sigh when I discovered that there was no artfully disheveled Frenchman waiting for me there. I bent double and clutched my knees in my hands. I counted to five. I swiveled and poked open the letterbox and gazed out at the street.

Dumb move.

Nancy was looking straight at me. Her tinted window was down, and she smirked and nodded to herself, like a craftswoman who was very pleased with her handiwork. Then she issued a command to Duane, and he gunned the engine and the car sped off along the street.

Marvelous.

I dropped the flap on the letterbox and trudged up the stairs to my apartment, cursing myself with every step I took. I could have done with my thesaurus because I was beginning to repeat myself by the time I reached the second floor, but I wasn’t all that concerned. One thing I’ve learned about writing over the years is that repetition can be a good thing—a useful way of building a rhythm or emphasizing a point. And besides, I felt sure that when I told Victoria about my latest setback, she’d offer me a wealth of new insults to add to my list.

I did some more repetition when I reached my front door because it was hanging ajar. Victoria must have forgotten to lock up after the glazier had left. It annoyed me, but worse than that, it frustrated me. I’d reminded Victoria on countless occasions just how costly a slip like this could be. As a thief, you never switch off. You’re always aware of every little opportunity that comes your way. And if I’d happened upon an open apartment door like this one, I’d have found it seriously tempting to nip inside and see what I could snatch.

In fact, I found it so tempting that I decided to teach Victoria a lesson. Ghosting through the doorway, I moved with exaggerated care into the well-lit living room. Victoria wasn’t there, but my laptop was, and so was my charred, though still very precious copy of
The Maltese Falcon
. I scooped them into my arms, and I was just about to make my exit when I happened to notice something out of the corner of my eye. Victoria’s wristwatch was resting on one of the sofa cushions.

The watch was fashioned from platinum with a pink pearlescent dial and a tiny pink diamond embedded in each hand. It had a chain-link strap and a short inscription etched into the back.
To Sugar Plum, Love, Daddy
.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen the inscription. Some months ago now, Victoria had passed me the timepiece and asked me to give her a rough appraisal of its value. She was worried about wearing it, and having met her father, I could appreciate her concern. Alfred was a man I admired greatly, but since he also happened to be a professional casino cheat who’d purchased the watch following a successful excursion to Atlantic City, Victoria was afraid that he’d blown a ridiculous amount of cash on the thing.

Fortunately, I was able to set Victoria’s mind at rest and tell her that although the watch was very handsome, the diamonds were low-grade and the whole thing was worth a couple of hundred pounds, at best.

I’d lied, of course. It was worth a small fortune. But I knew she’d never wear it if I told her as much, and I knew its true value wouldn’t change how much it meant to her. She was always toying with the thing, always touching it to reassure herself it was still there, and she’d be heartbroken if it was ever stolen.

Well, it was going to get stolen right now. Theoretically, at least. I added it to my laptop and Hammett’s novel, and then I marched down the corridor toward Victoria’s bedroom.

“You left the bloody door open,” I said. “Look at this, Vic. Look how easily it could have all been pinched.”

But she wasn’t in her bedroom. Her light was on. Her ring binder of notes was open on her bed. But she was nowhere to be seen.

Frowning, I crossed the hall into my bedroom, and when I switched on the ceiling light, my confusion and panic ramped up a level. Victoria wasn’t there, either. But my window was still broken. The wintry night breeze was gusting through the shattered pane.

I walked in a dazed fashion back along the hallway, passing the darkened bathroom. I prodded the front door shut, then returned to the living room. The silence was booming and absolute. It left me with only my thoughts, and my thoughts weren’t very welcome.

My first concern was that Victoria had been far angrier with me than I’d realized. It had been rude of me to expect her to wait for the handyman to come and fix my window, and perhaps I’d underestimated how miffed she really was. It could be that she’d stormed out of the apartment after I’d gone, without caring enough to turn off the lights or to close the door behind her. It could be she’d tramped around the block before finding a bar to hole up in for a while and sulk about my behavior.

I dumped my laptop and Hammett’s novel on my desk and tightened my fist around Victoria’s watch. Then a new notion occurred to me. If she’d left because she was mad, perhaps she’d wanted company. And there were only a handful of people she knew in Berlin. I didn’t imagine she’d contact any of the editors who’d bid on my new book. If she’d left because I’d upset her, she wouldn’t want to put herself in a position where she’d have to talk about my writing. And that only left one other person I could think of. Freddy. A man who’d made it very clear that he was attracted to Victoria.

I growled to myself and snatched my phone down from the wall. But I couldn’t call Freddy. I didn’t have his number. It was logged in Victoria’s mobile.

Victoria’s mobile.

Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of that before? I’d call her, and I’d apologize, and after she’d made me grovel for a time, we could be back on an even keel again.

I punched in her number. I listened to the static on the line. But I didn’t hear a ringing tone. I heard a piercing beep followed by the clear enunciation of a recorded German voice. The voice was female. It was telling me that my call couldn’t be connected because Victoria’s phone was switched off.

I swore under my breath. More repetition. Then I cut the connection and dialed the number for my landlord. He wasn’t at all pleased to hear from me. It seemed the glazier he’d contacted had turned up over an hour ago, but there’d been no answer when he’d buzzed my apartment. He’d been forced to leave without carrying out the job he’d been hired for, but he was still planning to charge a call-out fee, and my landlord was intending to add it to my monthly rent.

I apologized and told him that was fine, and once he’d left me in no doubt that I was now expected to arrange my own repairman at my own expense, he ended our conversation and returned me to silence again.

I didn’t like the way things were shaping up. It really wasn’t like Victoria to leave her precious watch lying around or to go out without scrawling me a note. She’d know that I’d fret about her, especially after the events of the past few days.

I hung up the phone and opened my palm and gazed down at the timepiece. And that was when I finally noticed something odd. The strap was broken. The platinum buckle was securely fastened, but the chain-link band had been ripped clean apart.

I didn’t believe it could have been an accident. The watch was beautifully manufactured and built to last. Breaking the strap would have required a lot of strength. Some kind of fast, violent tugging motion.

My head was beginning to swirl. The room was swirling with it. I groped for the wall and gazed across at the sofa. One of the seating cushions was out of place, as if it had been dragged forward. And there was a deep impression in the padding of the backrest that looked as if someone had tried to flatten themselves against it. Had Victoria wedged herself there? Had she been yanked off the sofa against her will?

I was slipping down the wall. Melting to the ground.

Then the telephone started to ring. It squealed in my ears but I was struggling to react.

The telephone trilled some more. In the brief pause between rings, my apartment felt even emptier than before.

I reached above my head and knocked the receiver from the hook, then scrambled to raise it to my ear.

“Herr Howard?”

The voice sounded distorted. Warped and ponderous. But I recognized it all the same. It was my mystery caller. The guy with the German accent.

“Where is she?” I asked, and as I said the words, I screwed my eyes tight shut and ground my fist into the side of my head.

“She is safe. For now.”

Awful, awful words. I didn’t believe them. Not for a minute. I hated hearing them. I felt sick and weak and juddery.

“I want her back,” I said, and I couldn’t hide the desperation in my voice.

“Then you must find the package. You must exchange it for her.”

“But I don’t have the stupid package. I don’t know where the damn thing is. I don’t even know
what
it is.”

“You must find it. Your girlfriend is in danger.”

“She’s not my—”

But the guy had already hung up. Leaving me to my cavernous apartment. The droning note of the telephone. The terrible silence all around.

TWENTY-THREE

I didn’t move for a long time. I stayed down on the floor, feeling powerless and confused, weak and disoriented. I was numb. I was angry. And I was scared.

I was so scared that I was afraid to think. If I started to think about the situation Victoria was in, where she was being held, how she was being treated, it would become real. It would exist. So I shied away from it, like a guy trying hard not to gaze into a bright white light that was being shined directly into his eyes.

But it was impossible to do. Completely unavoidable. The light was making my eyes water. I was crying. I was a wreck.

My imagination was the problem. I could visualize Victoria’s plight because I’d written the exact same scene many times before. Most every hack out there penning mystery novels has. Nearly all of us follow the same broad template. Nearly all of us use italics.

It starts with a barren, cheerless room, described with a handful of keystrokes. Bare walls, concrete floor, no windows, little furniture. Maybe there’s a soiled mattress or a single ladder-back chair. Maybe there’s a bare bulb flickering in the middle of the ceiling.

Our victim is huddled in the corner. Chances are she’s shackled. She may be injured in some way. Perhaps her wound was sustained during a foiled escape attempt, or perhaps it was inflicted by her captor as a sign of worse to come.

The poor, sniffling heroine is unkempt and distressed. Her clothes are badly torn or discarded altogether. But she’s just beginning to gather her strength. She’s summoning her wits. She’s starting to search for the one tantalizing flaw in her jailor’s plan, the single weakness in her dungeon.

Footsteps approach. Keys rattle in a lock and a bolt is thrown. The evil sadist steps into the room, face shadowed, to issue threats and warnings. Maybe he describes the variety of pain and torture the victim can expect to endure. Maybe he explains exactly why the hero won’t be able to save her this time. Oh, and just for good measure, the moment he’s about to leave, he happens to spot that one potential weakness our heroine has been relying upon …

Enough.

I rolled onto my side, pushed up from my knees, and staggered into my bathroom. I ran the cold tap over the sink and bathed my face and the back of my neck. I gazed at myself in the mirror, water dripping from my brow. I looked like I’d shed about a stone in weight. My cheeks were scooped out, my eyes red and wild and protruding from my face.

They protruded a little more.

In the corner of the mirror, I’d spotted something down on the floor behind me. I turned and crouched beside the bath and lifted the pigskin document wallet in my hands. Victoria’s weapons kit. It was unzipped, and its contents tumbled out and bounced on the tiled floor.