The Other Son (14 page)

A two-day drive, from the south of Germany to the south of Spain.

Sonya was tired and worn out by the time she parked the SUV in the yard in front of the house.

Aron went to meet her. Together they lifted Carlos Fuentes out and laid him down on the ground in the body bag. Aron crouched down and looked at Carlos through the transparent plastic as he lay there in his robe, the oxygen mask over his nose, his eyes wide open. He unzipped the bag and took the mask off, revealing the taped mouth beneath it. Carlos was breathing jerkily through his nose, and was trying to say something. Aron stood up.

“Take him inside.”

Hector was lying
in bed in the middle of the room, connected to his life-support machines. Aron was already in the room, and Carlos was pushed in behind him by Sonya. The tape over his mouth recently ripped off.

“Just listen to me,” Carlos pleaded.

Aron turned around, slapping him hard and fast. Carlos lost his balance, was about to say something, but Aron hit him again.

“Sorry!” Carlos screamed.

He was trembling as he stood there in his loose-fitting robe. Sonya shoved him toward Hector's bed from behind. Carlos tried to avoid looking at Hector.

“Look at him,” Aron said.

Carlos did so, briefly, then looked down again.

“Look at him,” Aron repeated.

Carlos resisted, then raised his head again.

Hector's respirator wheezed quietly. Carlos's breathing was heavier.

“How did you find me?” he whispered.

“Pimps,” Sonya said.

Carlos turned to her with a questioning look.

“It wasn't hard,” Sonya said.

“That's what you are, Carlos,” Aron said. “Right down to your marrow. A john.”

Carlos stared at them.

“What do you want to know?” His voice was weak and brittle.

“The Hankes.”

Carlos cleared his throat.

“They're nervous,” he began.

“What about?”

“About everything.”

“What are they doing?”

“They're looking for you,” Carlos said.

“What do they know?”

“I don't know.”

“You must have told them something?”

“No, nothing of value. I don't know anything.”

“Don't lie.”

Carlos blinked, thought feverishly, then rubbed his eyes hard.

“They're in hiding,” he said.

“Where?”

“Here and there. Ralph and his son keep moving around, are rarely seen in public, never together.”

Carlos saw an opening.

“You need me, Aron,” he whispered beseechingly. “Send me back to the Hankes, I'll keep my ears open and report back to you!”

Aron didn't answer, just took him under the arm and dragged him out of the house.

They stopped at the back of the building, at the edge of the forest.

Aron let go of Carlos, took the pistol from the holster on his belt, and aimed it at Carlos's head. He fell to his knees, muttering something about mercy, panting and spitting.

“I know more!” Carlos said hoarsely.

Aron lowered the pistol slightly, away from Carlos.

Carlos thought frantically. Then he stood up and tried to run. But he was so terrified that he stumbled pathetically and fell in a heap. Aron took a few steps toward him. Carlos sat with his legs beneath him, muttering about the Virgin Mary, something about his mother, and that life had been unfair.

Aron wasn't listening, and aimed the pistol at the back of the Spaniard's head.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Carlos screamed, holding his hands in the air. All of a sudden he was furious.

“Wait, I said! What do you need to know, Aron?”

Anger and dread coursed out of Carlos. Aron couldn't bear to look at him.

“You need to know all sorts of things…Aron?” He sounded humble now, running his hands over the ground for some reason. Carlos's brain was working at top speed. He thought of something.

“What was said once they were alone in the room!”

He repeated the same sentence again.

“What room?” Aron asked.

“The room! After she left. What was said in there afterward!”

“When who left what room, Carlos?”

“The meeting with Ralph, what was said after she left.”

“What meeting, and after who left?”

“The nurse!” Carlos squealed.

Aron's eyes narrowed and he lowered the gun. “The slightest lack of clarity now, Carlos, and I'll shoot you in the knees, then the arms, and then the stomach, so you bleed to death very slowly.”

Carlos was breathing hard. “When the nurse was in Munich!”

“What are you talking about?”

Carlos made an effort to get his breathing under control, and gulped.

“The nurse, Hector's woman, Sophie, the Swede!” he said. “She was in Munich, she met Ralph.”

“When?”

He searched his muddled mind. “About a week ago.”

“Go on,” Aron said.

Carlos couldn't shake off the feeling of panic. “I don't understand.”

“What was she doing there, the nurse?”

Carlos ran his hands over the ground again.

“Talking,” he said. “She was there talking to Ralph and Roland Gentz.”

“And?”

“I barely heard them, I was in the next room.”

“Go on, Carlos!”

Carlos scratched his arm hard, it looked painful.

“Something about giving what you had to the Hankes, that she could help them with that. That she wanted time, that things would grow and get bigger, and then the Hankes could take over everything. Something like that.”

Aron listened, and Carlos searched for more, cursing himself for not remembering anything else. Then something popped into his mind.

“They talked about a son!”

“A son?”

“A son, someone they'd been looking for for a long time, and had found at last.”

“Did Sophie talk about that?”

“No, this was earlier.”

“Who talked about it?”

“One of Hanke's men, I heard him talking on the phone.”

“When?”

“I don't know, a week or so before Sophie's visit. I don't remember.”

“Whose son? Was a name mentioned?”

Carlos shook his head. “No, I don't know. But I can find out!”

Aron's eyes were empty and glassy. Carlos held both his hands out.

“Wait, Aron! I know other things.”

He muttered short words, trying to sound helpful. But he had nothing to say. Instead it was just rambling nonsense that didn't mean a thing.

Aron aimed the barrel of the pistol at the Spaniard's head. Carlos wet himself, covered his face with his arms, and screamed, asking with anguished madness where he was going to be buried.

Two loud bangs from Aron's pistol. A flock of birds took off from a tree. The echo of the gunshots faded over the valley.

Carlos's body lay limp on the ground in front of him. Disgust at what he had done gathered in Aron's mouth. He spat, not at Carlos, but alongside, as if the taste were unbearable, and then he kicked sand and grit over the blood next to Carlos's head.

He pulled out his cell, took a photograph of the body, and went back toward the house.

Sonya was standing on the veranda as he approached.

“Aron?”

He stopped and turned toward Sonya without looking at her. “Let Piño out. And get ready to leave.”

“Where are we going?”

“France. The house in Villefranche,” Aron said.

He continued on into the house.

In the dining room he glanced at the table, all the pictures, his entire world. Now it had all changed dramatically.

Aron went over to the wall, hesitated, then pulled the chain that hung down from the ceiling, left the room, and closed the door behind him.

From the other side he heard the hiss of the showerheads above the table. A million microscopic drops of acid forced their way out of the tiny holes, forming a gentle mist that slowly settled on the table, destroying everything on top of it and leaving just an unrecognizable gray sludge behind.

From an open
safe in his bedroom Aron took out a worn old notebook and leafed through it until he found what he was looking for. He keyed the digits into his cell with his right forefinger. It was a Berlin number, belonging to Franka Tiedemann, mother of Lothar, Hector's son.

They had sent money to her every month for seventeen years. At first she had turned it down, but Hector had carried on, and Franka realized it was pointless trying to object and had opened an account to cover the cost of Lothar's education. The money was paid in via dummy accounts in the name of dead people by someone with power of attorney, all to conceal its origins. Every other month Aron would speak to her over the phone. He would ask how they were, about Lothar's progress, his general well-being. Franka always answered dutifully, but no more than that. She had made it very clear to Hector right from the start: stay away from Lothar, you're dangerous. Hector knew she was right, and had therefore done as she asked, but kept his eye on them as best he could. He had always had a suspicion that something might happen to the boy, in spite of the fact that he had done everything in his power to conceal his existence.

The voicemail beeped in Aron's ear.

“Franka, you know who this is. Call or contact me however you think best. But I need to hear from you urgently.”

Aron ended the call. He felt Sonya's presence behind him.

“What did Carlos say?” she asked quietly.

Aron blew the air out of his lungs and stared blankly ahead for a while as he pieced together fragments of his conversation with Carlos.

“That Sophie might have gone over to the other side. And that they might have Lothar.”

“Might and might?”

“Yes, might and might,” he replied quietly.

“Why ‘might'?”

“Because it was Carlos saying it.”

“What if there's some truth to it?”

Aron had no answer. He stood up, started to walk back inside.

“Leszek and the others?” she asked.

Aron stopped at the door. “I'll contact him, just give me a bit of time.”

Aron scratched the back of his neck, staring hard at nothing, and remained standing in the doorway, as he wanted to ask her something without quite managing to find the words.

“What are you thinking, Aron?”

“I don't know.”

“If what you said is true, then we're all in danger, especially those of us who've been closest to her. Leszek, Angela and the boys, Hasani. Aren't they?”

Aron had gotten stuck on one particular thought. It didn't lead anywhere. He looked at Sonya, and as if he hadn't heard what she said, he went on: “You can call Raimunda now, and tell her to come back home.”

Three hours later
Aron, Sonya, and Raimunda left the house in the mountains together with Hector, and began the marathon journey toward the south coast of France and the house in Villefranche. They drove nonstop, Aron was nervous. Nervous about Hector's condition in the back of the SUV. But also worried. The “signs” that Raimunda had seen. The fact that Hector was showing signs of brain activity meant that he might one day wake up. How would they handle that? Would they be able to do everything right during the critical moments of his reawakening? And what would Hector be like? Different?

Usually Aron would have taken everything in stride; that was the key to his success. But he couldn't find any comfort at all. Everything was dangerous now.

Seventeen hours later they arrived. The house was large, luxurious, located on a hill with a view of Cap Ferrat and the Mediterranean.

They settled in.

The bed Jens was lying in was soft, the sheets white, the pillow far too big. He felt dry everywhere, in his throat, his mouth, his eyes. His skin and lips were burning.

A tractor was rumbling in the distance, there were hens clucking beneath the window, and on the radio a male voice was talking very fast.

A woman came in, stared at him in surprise, put a hand to her chest, and muttered several quick sentences in Spanish, almost as rapid as the voice on the radio. She said something to Jens and pointed up at the ceiling…unless she meant heaven. The woman was very expressive, gesticulating wildly, her facial expression constantly changing: she looked happy, then surprised, then astonished.

Jens didn't understand any of it.

“Where am I?” he whispered in English.

The woman kept on chattering and didn't seem to have understood his question. She filled a glass with water, talking nonstop, then abruptly left the room.

Jens reached for the glass of water, his body aching, and drained the contents in one gulp. When he put the glass back on the bedside table he discovered that the fingertips of his right hand were stained. Each finger bluish-lilac, ink…fingerprints.

With a sudden sense of urgency he went to get out of bed, but something tugged at his ankle, sending a flash of pain up to his knee. He threw the covers back. His foot was chained to the metal frame of the bed. Jens tugged at it, trying to find a way to get free, but the cuff was firmly attached.

Car tires on the gravel outside the window, hens shrieking and flapping to take cover, then the car stopped. Doors opened and closed, footsteps on the gravel, he thought he could count two people. They walked quickly up a flight of steps; an outer door opened, then the sound of shoes approaching his room rapidly.

Two men came in. One in civilian clothes, an ivory shirt, a vest visible beneath it, a gold-colored police badge around his neck. He was accompanied by an officer in uniform.

The man in the suit indicated that the uniform could leave. The man found a chair and pulled it across the floor toward the bed.

“You were lucky,” he said to Jens as he sat down on the chair. He fished a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. “How are you feeling?”

Jens didn't answer.

The man took out a cigarette and made a gesture as if to ask whether Jens would like one. Jens declined.

“You were found by one of those paragliders,” he said, lighting the cigarette. He sucked hard three times, and only half the smoke came back out.

“He contacted the people in this village, and they picked you up. You were in a very bad way: dehydrated, almost dead. A doctor came and took care of you. And now you're awake.”

Two more drags.

“My name is Guillermo Mendoza,” he said.

Another drag. “And who are you?”

“No one special.”

“Nor me, but I need to know.”

“What for?”

“Because I'm a police officer.”

“Have I done something?”

Mendoza shrugged. “I don't know.”

Jens looked at him.
Guillermo Mendoza
…There was something appealing about the man, a sharpness, intellect, something simultaneously good and intelligent that he hid behind a weary gaze and a cloud of smoke.

“Why am I being held captive in bed?”

“Where are you from?”

“Here and there.”

Mendoza scratched his chin. “How long have you been in Mexico?”

“A while.”

“How did you get into the country?”

“Doesn't matter. How much can I pay you to look the other way while I get a head start out of here?”

Mendoza reflected, stroking his cheek. “Well, I don't know….Nothing, really.”

“Name your price.”

Mendoza saw that his cigarette had burned down to the filter, and stubbed it out on the floor with his shoe. “No, I'm sorry.”

He had reacted to the bribe as if Jens were offering him a secondhand car he didn't want to buy. He pulled the packet of cigarettes out again, and pointed quickly at Jens.

“But, in answer to your previous question as to why you're chained to the bed…”

Mendoza tapped out a cigarette and put it between his lips.

“We took your prints.”

He lit it.

“We ran them through all our databases, but we couldn't find your identity anywhere.”

Two deep drags, one after the other.

“But?” Jens asked.

“An alarm went off somewhere.”

“Where?”

Mendoza fixed his gaze on Jens, then gestured toward the ceiling with the hand holding the cigarette.

“Far up to the north. Sweden…Stockholm.”