The Wind Chill Factor (40 page)

“Will you stay awake?” Peterson was stroking his mustache.

“As long as we keep her awake, yes. She’s had a great ingestion of chemicals in the past twelve hours or so, getting herself speeded up to handle the stress of the party. Oh, she brings it on herself, setting up confrontations between all the concerned parties, utterly self-destructive, egocentric, not caring who gets hurt as long as she satisfies her own curiosity.” He saw our disconcerted expressions, and turned back to the window, spreading the curtains. “It’s so complex … but you must try to understand that she is not like the rest of us, that she is obsessed by her own identity. Or lack of it. The result is that she is unpredictable—or that all you can predict is her inconsistency, her lack of concern for the consequences of her acts. She really doesn’t see anything particularly wrong with what she does. She has no self-pity.” He finally turned back and blew his nose. “But she has no pity for anyone else either. She just doesn’t give a damn about anything but finding out what in the world is the point of her own existence. It’s still snowing outside, gentlemen, and we’ve got to get you out of here.”

“I don’t give a damn how crazy she is,” Peterson growled, “she’s coming with us. Finding their master stuffed behind the couch is going to make some of these people very angry. There’s always the chance that his wife will be some kind of insurance for us. She’s valuable to both sides, Brendel’s and Siegfried’s, right?”

“Oh, yes, she’s valuable. She has her protectors. You’re right in wanting to take her with you. And what’s kidnapping compared to your other crimes?”

“Which crimes are those?”

Roeschler smiled bleakly. “The murder of your host, for one. They’re obviously going to hold you responsible for that. They certainly won’t think I did it, will they?”

“So, the crazy lady comes with us, then,” Peterson said.

“I’m not crazy, Mr. Peterson.” She was leaning heavily in the doorway. “I’m terribly tired but I’m not crazy.”

I led her across to a chair. “Thank you, John.” Her eyes were closed, her face battered, the words forced their way past her puffed, dry lips. She folded her hands in her lap, her lashes fluttered. I stood beside her, watching her. She leaned back in the chair, breathing with difficulty. Peterson and Roeschler were conferring quietly across the room.

“Could I have some water … John, please, some water.” She opened her eyes but couldn’t focus properly. She touched her breast again, as if seeking proof that she was still there. I held the glass to the cut lip but she didn’t open her mouth and it ran down her chin. I held a tissue to her, soaking it up, covered my fingers with water, and moistened her split, parched lip. She was almost out. I remembered the touch of her mouth in the park, the snow drifting down on her face.

Peterson was standing over us, impatient.

“We’re going out now,” he said. “The four of us are going down the stairway, across the foyer, and out the front door. Roeschler says he can get us past the storm troopers at the door. If he can’t a lot of people are going to get hurt. But crazypants here is coming along like the hostages in the movies. She’s our ticket out of the madhouse. Now get her up and let’s haul ass.” He went to the door and looked into the hallway.

Roeschler brought a sheepskin coat from a closet for Lise. “We’ve got to keep her warm,” he said. “She has no resistance to anything right now.”

Peterson came back, snapping his fingers.

“Let’s go, let’s go and get this over with. Thank God for the candles, no one will really notice her face—Christ, she looks like she just went through fifteen minutes with the Swedish Angel. Roeschler, you get our coats, we can’t go tear-assing out into a blizzard without our coats.”

We went down the stairway like Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman in
Notorious.
Peterson was in the lead, Roeschler at the rear, and he veered off to get the coats while we moved along the wall beneath the candles. We stopped well short of the door. They were there, blocking our exit. Siegfried stood with them, watching us, his blond hair dulled in the gloom. People moved sluggishly on all sides, laughing and chatting wearily, queuing up for their wraps. It was almost one o’clock.

Roeschler loomed up with coats. He helped me on with mine, trying to camouflage Lise’s indisposition. We wedged her between us as I struggled into the sleeve. I smelled her perfume again in the close, hot crowd. Peterson got into his coat and turned to Roeschler.

“Okay, do it,” he said and Roeschler took the lead as we moved toward the door.

Siegfried finally made a move, bypassing Roeschler and confronting me and Lise.

“Where are you going, Lise? Where is Gunter?” His voice was too high. “You are not to leave,” he said to me.

Roeschler was at the door talking with the oversized palace guard. They were listening. He gestured back to us and looked worried and the men looked our way, too. One shook his head, frowning. Peterson kept pushing us forward, pushing us into Siegfried, who was also looking very worried.

“You must not leave,” he said. He was becoming shrill and an elderly couple turned, taking notice with arched eyebrows. “Lise,” he said insistently. “Where is Gunter?”

Peterson had had enough. He reached around and grabbed at Siegfried’s waistcoat, his hand out of sight, and yanked him tight against us, smiling into the matinee idol face.

“Get lost,” he said. “Understand? Just go away. We’re leaving. She’s coming with us and if there’s any problem your balls will be the very first casualty.”

Peterson shoved hard below eye level and Siegfried stepped back, mouth open, gasping.

We were at the door and Roeschler turned, confusion on his strong features. It wasn’t working. The guards weren’t buying it. We stood staring at an impasse.

“Do these people understand English?” Peterson asked.

Roeschler nodded. Siegfried stood with his back to the wall deciding if foolish bravery were required; no one knew quite what was happening. Except Peterson.

“I’ll negotiate,” he said. We were knotted closer, Peterson staring at the Adam’s apples of the three men who didn’t want us to leave. I heard every word because he was speaking very slowly.

“If we don’t go out that door four people are going to die in about two seconds. First, my friend here”—he indicated me—“is going to kill Frau Brendel. While he’s doing that I’m going to kill all three of you. Bang. Bang. Bang. I’ve got nothing to lose. You can buy back your lives by letting us out the door. You follow us—and the nice lady dies anyway.”

The three impassive faces stared ahead at Peterson.

“It’s up to you.”

Peterson motioned to me to go through the door. He was right. We were out of alternatives and I was glad. I walked Lise to the door. Roeschler opened it. Outside it was cold and white and clean and I didn’t look back.

Lise turned her face toward me and shielded herself from the blowing snow. It was slippery and we took tiny, cautious steps. I didn’t know what was happening behind us, I just kept walking the length of the way to the parking lot. Where the hell was the car?

I looked back at last. Roeschler, Peterson, and the three men were behind us, the three being marched along between. Snow was covering their dreary black suits. They didn’t know what to do.

The parking attendants took a step toward our procession and stopped. Peterson smiled as he reached them, dangled his keys, and said, “It’s all right, I’ve got the keys. It’s the first car.” He called to me as they went back to their shelter and cigarettes, ignoring us: “Cooper, over there, to your left, first in the rank.”

The seven of us, including the three coatless and shivering men, stood by the car while Peterson unlocked the front and back doors. The lights popped on inside. When he turned back to us he was holding a gun with a bulbous canister on the end of the barrel.

“Okay, Roeschler, get in back, move it.” Roeschler hunched clumsily in the back seat.

“Cooper, load her in next to him.” Peterson’s gun steadied against the three men, who moved from foot to foot, rubbed their white hands. “If you follow us, if you do any goddamned thing in the world to interfere with us, Frau Brendel dies. Do you understand?”

They nodded in unison.

“This is not what you think it is,” Peterson said. “Before you make a terrible mistake, find Herr Brendel. When you find him, then ask him what to do—Herr Brendel will explain the whole thing to you. Have you got that? Now, come on, give me a great big smile. Come on, let’s all smile together.” He motioned with the gun. “Smile. I’m going to smile.” He gave them the bared teeth, wolflike.

Finally they smiled, teeth chattering.

Peterson cuffed one on the shoulder, comradely.

I climbed in, slipping on the ice and snow, grabbing the door for support. He slammed the door. I pressed the button to lower the window. Peterson was enjoying himself.

He handed me the gun. “Hold it in your left hand, rest it on the window. They’re going to wave bye-byes.” He moved gingerly around the front of the car, slid in behind the wheel, and started the engine. Bending toward me, he flapped a hand at them.

They were backing away, waving.

“Fucking Katzenjammer Kids,” he said. “You gotta have a good time, it keeps you from realizing what you’re doing.” He chortled in the dark. “There’s a paper bag on the seat, Cooper. Reach in and get me a sucker.” He sighed heavily. “Go ahead, take one for yourself. Celebrate.”

As we drove back into Munich, Roeschler explained to us what lay ahead. First, the death of Brendel would go undiscovered for at least a few hours, enough time for us to make our getaway—the same escape route he had provided for my brother. It entailed a drive southward and on up through the Alps to a schloss well out of the way.

Second, no guilt must attach to Roeschler. After apparently killing Brendel, we kidnapped him to make good our escape. The following morning, his housekeeper would find him roped to his bed.

Third, we would remain at the mountain retreat until he got word to us.

“As to the rest of their movement,” Roeschler went on, “I simply can’t be sure. Brendel’s death will confuse them—momentarily. They took their orders from him but he was like any other leader. Replaceable. Alfried Kottmann may assume leadership or, and this is the problem, Siegfried may make his move.” He sniffed in the cold and blew his nose. The headlights poked warily into the billowing clouds of snow. “Siegfried is difficult to evaluate—he is a mercurial young man, but is he a dilettante or does he have real strength behind him? What land of money does he have access to? Surely not the Madrid sources. I doubt if it will stand up now that Brendel is dead. Without Brendel, Siegfried may find life’s realities a bit harsher than he expected. I’m rather worried about Siegfried’s reaction to all this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I expect he will add up his situation and see that the connection to Brendel was his main pillar of support. Which may turn him to a last resort, namely, Frau Brendel, the widow of the great man. He may or may not have feelings for her—he is a very modern fellow, whether or not he has feelings at all I cannot even guess—but he may choose to make her a symbol. If he can recover her, he may feel he can reestablish his role. He knows that Kottmann has no time for him and St. John is in Kottmann’s camp, the sly old bastard.

“They may try to get rid of Siegfried themselves. They may want to shore up the situation and stay on schedule, forget Lise and erase Siegfried. After all, what do they need either of them for? They’ve got their timetable and men die—but timetables are made to be kept. Siegfried may realize they are his natural enemies. If he does, he’ll either go underground or try to recover Lise and pose as the hero, the new Siegfried Germany has been waiting for.” He sneezed, trying to muffle it.

Peterson found the narrow street and Roeschler directed him to a side street, intersecting an alley which ran behind his house. Lise stumbled groggily, but made it down the slender thread of snow and into Roeschler’s warm, sweet-smelling kitchen. She mumbled distantly, tears welled in pink corners of her eyes, and I touched her hair in a frail attempt to comfort her. Peterson was watching me grimly. There was blood caked beneath her nostrils and speckles on the white fleece lining of the coat. I sat down, hungry and tired, my eyes burning, and watched her.

I must have dozed. Peterson was shaking my shoulder.

“Come on, John. We’ve changed license plates on the car. Now we’re just another black Mercedes. But we’ve got to get moving. We’re not safe here.” He was pulling on his gloves. “Everything’s in the car. All the bags, everything. It’s all taken care of.”

Lise had slumped across the table and Roeschler was getting her ready to go. The room smelled of coffee. Peterson slopped brandy into a mug and shoved it at me. I sipped it and it burned my tongue.

“Good-bye, Mr. Cooper,” Roeschler said, shaking my hand firmly. He bowed slightly, dignity about him like a cape.

Peterson handed me the keys to the Mercedes.

“Take your sister”—he grimaced at that—“take that crazypants with you.” He followed Roeschler out of the kitchen. I heard them on the stair.

I put her in the back seat and started the car, got the heater switch into the On position, got back out, and slid in beside her. She leaned against me. Helpless, reduced to her simplest animal self. I put my arm around her. But when I tried to think about her, the masks she wore, I kept seeing Roeschler pressing the silencer to Brendel’s head.

I heard Peterson stomping down the steps into the snow. He got in and peered back at us. “Okay,” he said. “We go.”

We stopped in Bad Tolz at something past four in the morning. It was dark and the snow was fine and dry, whipped down the empty streets by a sharp wind. The houses were gabled and painted brightly but there was little light of any kind and no movement. We got out to stretch, left Lise in the snug rear seat. Peterson clenched and unclenched his hands.

The cold felt good. We sheltered in a doorway.

“How did you get us out of Brendel’s house?” I asked.

He brushed the snow out of his mustache and turned up his coat collar. Snow blew down the street in clouds, like ghosts.