Ring of Lies (31 page)

2 A
PRIL
1961

I have risen from the dead. I barely sleep. We work day and night. The restored café will open on 8 August.

Yesterday, an attractive brunette walked in and asked what was going to open here. Even now, I don't understand why I told her about the fire and my loved ones who were killed.

Her blue eyes glowed.

She returned today with a thermos of coffee she had made. She is at least fifteen years younger than I. Once my scarred soul is exposed, she will undoubtedly run for her life. I must make it clear to her that I am not interested.

Last night, I dreamed about Jasmine. Sophie and Albert were in her arms.

Flames engulfed their bodies.

Alois Brunner was the Israelite, the link between the Syrian Mukhabarat and the Mud Man.

Orchidea and Paris were still in Syria.

“We're not going to make it out of here,” she yelled over the phone. In the background was the ominous sound of bullets hitting steel. The engine of the ambulance was shrieking and springs were creaking. Another thud.

“We'll get you out,” Alex said with as much confidence as he could muster.

“Gerard won't make it,” she said. “He's dying.”

“Who?”

“Paris.”

“What did you call him?”

“Gerard.”

“Trezeguet?”

“Yes . . . Why?”

“Let me talk to him.”

“He's in bad shape, Alex. He's lost a lot of blood.”

“I understand. But it's important. Can he speak?”

“He's not responding.”

“Let me try.”

“Just a minute,” she said. “I must keep my hands on the wheel. I lost a tire!”

Sirens screamed in the background. He heard her call out in a loud voice, “It's Alex!”

“Just a second,” she said. “I'm trying to hand him the phone.”

Alex heard a bang, followed by a yelp of pain. “The steering wheel!” she cried out in panic. “They're getting close!”

Alex picked up Justus's will and stared at the names of the heirs: Rachel Dresdener and Gerard Trezeguet.

The Frenchman's breathing was noisy and anguished.

“Gerard?” he tried.

A broken moan.

“Justus betrayed the Ring and handed it and the virus over to Brunner and the Syrians.”

“No . . .” Gerard protested weakly.

Thank God, he was still responsive. “I saw it with my own eyes,” Alex said.

“No . . . not Justus . . .”

“He donated a lot of money to a neo-Nazi group. He was doing it for years.”

Gerard spat. “No.”

“He was working with Brunner and the Syrians.”

“No . . .”

“There's no one else.”

“There is . . .”

“Who?”

“Blackmail . . .”

“Who was blackmailing whom?”

“Justus asked me . . . letter bomb . . .”

“What letter bomb?”

“Woman killed . . .”

“Who did he send a letter bomb to?”

“Blackmail . . .”

“Brunner?”

“Nazis . . . first Gunter . . .”

“Who was blackmailing them, Gerard?”

“The swine . . .”

“What swine?”

“The grill house . . .”

“What grill house?” Alex asked, a shiver going through his body.

“Schlaff . . . Oskar Schlaff.”

Oskar Schlaff was the Mud Man.

Schlaff, the owner of the Schlaff Bierkeller und Grill; Justus's close friend; the man who kept a case of rare Brunello for him; the warmhearted host. Oh God.

The picture was becoming clearer. One of the Stasi twins had been tailing Berlin, had followed him that night from the grill house to Teufelsberg. The note the waitress passed to Alex linked him and Jane to Berlin. And Schlaff had also seen Jane in the restaurant with Justus.

“Are you positive?” Alex asked.

“It broke him . . .” Gerard said faintly.

“What's the connection between Schlaff and Brunner?”

“Nephew . . .”

“How?”

A cough. “Sister's son . . .”

“What did Schlaff have on Justus?”

Gerard coughed uncontrollably, gagging. “Don't know . . .”

“It's important, Gerard.”

“They ate there for years . . . they paid . . . didn't know who . . . I found the bank . . .”

“What bank?”

“He withdrew the money . . . cash . . . I got pictures . . . Justus saw . . . the pictures . . .”

“Of who?”

“He cried . . . like a child . . .”

Gerard was wheezing. His lungs were choked.

“Where the hell is it . . .” Orchidea muttered in the background.

“And the body you brought from Paris?” Alex asked.

“Tailing me . . .”

“Why did you come to Berlin?”

“Justus didn't reply . . . I understood . . . something wrong . . .” He groaned in agony.

A bullet hit the ambulance. Glass shattered.

“Justus left you half a billion euros. Why did he do that?”

“In the war . . . my father and Gunter . . . like brothers . . .” He wheezed. “Papa owned a café . . . Brunner and the SS . . . always came . . . Gunter defected . . . Papa recruited him . . . Resistance . . . rescued Jews . . . thousands . . . children . . . Brunner raped, killed . . . wife and children . . . set fire . . .”

“Did you know that Brunner was still alive and hiding in Damascus?”

“I prayed . . . in Zenobia I suspected . . .”

“How?”

“Don't want to die . . .”

“How did you know it was him?”

“No eye . . . gloves . . . Justus died . . . died loyal . . . not traitor . . . dear Justus . . . dead . . .”

He wept softly. “Oh, Justus . . .”

Alex's heart ached for the Frenchman. His sobbing grew louder. He coughed and choked. “Dear Justus . . .”

Alex wiped his eyes.

“What's wrong, Gerard? Why are you crying?” Orchidea asked.

“My fault . . . didn't know . . .”

“Didn't know what, Gerard?”

“All connected . . . please . . . forgive me . . .”

“There's nothing to forgive.”

“I did . . . what you wanted . . . Brunner was the Israelite . . .”

“I'll take care of Oskar Schlaff,” Alex promised.

“So cold . . . Papa wrote . . .”

“What did Papa write?”

“. . . Diary . . . please . . . kiss children for me . . . Gilbert . . . Gaston . . . kiss . . .”

“I will.” Tears were streaming down Alex's face. “I promise.”

Gerard fought for air.

“Who's Rachel Dresdener?”

Silence.

“Tell me, Gerard. Who's Rachel Dresdener?”

Silence.

“GERARD!”

The silence was unbroken.

Then Alex heard a whisper: “Shema Yisrael . . . Adonai Eloheinu . . . Adonai Echad.”
¹

5 A
PRIL
1961

The young woman returned to the café today. Her name is Arianne. I am not afraid of you, she said as she sat down beside me on the curb, where I devoured the egg-salad sandwich she had prepared. Her hair is coal black and her eyes clear blue. Her lips are as red as ripe fruit. Before she left, she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

6 A
UGUST
1961

A while ago, I wrote a letter to the deputy commandant to tell him of the reopening that will take place in two days.

Today he appeared unexpectedly at the construction site, elegantly dressed and perfectly coiffed, and hugged me tightly. When he saw the restoration work we had done on the café, he burst into tears. He kissed both my hands. I told him that I had taken out a large loan. He left, explaining that he had a business meeting.

Later he returned and handed me a full cardboard box. What's in the box, I asked. The deputy commandant smiled. The box was packed with new five-hundred-franc notes.

Take it, he said. I have more than enough. And you sacrificed everything you had for me.

7 A
UGUST
1961

Oh God, tomorrow is the opening.

“Look for a news item about a letter bomb in Berlin not long ago,” Alex instructed Butthead.

“Why do you sound strange?”

“Strange how?”

“Sad.”

He'd sent Gerard Trezeguet to his death without even knowing who he was, and had unwittingly allowed him to fulfill his destiny. The deep-rooted, courageous friendship between Gerard and Justus—born of an even stronger bond between their fathers—aroused a mixture of envy and sorrow. The words
Shema Yisrael
, traditionally recited by Jews on their deathbed, had never affected him so deeply.

Moments before he died, Gunter had drawn a croissant. He was trying to tell them to talk to Paris, but Alex had missed it.

Trezeguet . . . Trezeguet . . . He'd seen that name before . . . But where?

He hurried to Justus's study and looked at the photographs on the cabinet. He picked up the small faded picture encased in Perspex and examined it closely: a man in a white apron was standing in front of a Parisian café, his arms folded on his chest and a smile on his face. In the background, patrons occupied round tables. Above his head was a dark awning with the name
CAFÉ TREZEGUET
.

He found a magnifying glass in a desk drawer and held it up to the photo. There was a gap between the man's front teeth.

His phone vibrated.

“February 18 of this year,” Butthead said. “A letter bomb exploded in the office of the Schlaff Bierkeller und Grill. It was addressed to Oskar Schlaff, supposedly from the Estonian Veterinary and Food Service, but it blew up in the hands of the restaurant manager, one Rosemarie Landwer. She was Schlaff's common-law wife. It contained three pounds of plastic explosives. It took five days to officially identify the body. No suspects have ever been detained.”

Gerard had told the truth. Oskar Schlaff had been blackmailing the Erlichmanns. Justus tried to assassinate Schlaff, but he killed his common-law wife by mistake. From that point on, it became personal.

Schlaff wanted to hurt him badly and keep him paying. He took the gloves off, meted out punishment, and sentenced him to a heavy fine. That would explain Justus's last deposit, which was ten times the usual amount. So far, it all fit. But why did Justus hand over the Ring to Schlaff?

In the video, he seemed to be giving them the information of his own free will. But that didn't make sense. Something was missing. What was Schlaff holding over the Erlichmanns? What did he know that they would pay such a hefty price to keep secret?

And what about the swastika Justus had painted on the tail of the Messerschmitt? Maybe he simply wished to make it look authentic and hadn't painted it out of sympathy or worship.

Butthead called.

“We traced the two phone numbers they found in Brunner's
apartment. The first is Oskar Schlaff's cellphone. We're working on a preliminary profile of the guy.

“The second number belongs to Omar Hattab. We're analyzing the conversations between them over the past few months. After that, we'll see who else they were each in contact with.”

“Well done, Butthead. I need Schlaff's home address and a satellite image of the area of the restaurant complex.”

In his mind's eye, he saw the overly tight face of Oskar Schlaff. The long blond hair, bottle of Brunello, gracious hospitality, affection for Justus.

And, of course, skewered pigs.

The Syrian jeeps were closing in on them like a pack of hyenas that smelled blood. Her side mirrors were painted in intense blue light. Where was the fucking turnoff? Had she missed it?

She saw a black road sign with Arabic letters. Was it the turnoff? Impulsively, she decided to risk it and swerved sharply off the highway onto the dirt road, the ambulance jerking wildly. She banged her head on the roof. The rear punctured tire was wrenched from the rim. Black rubber scraps spun up and splashed on the road.

“Sammy?” she yelled into the phone, but she only heard hushed mumbling.

The phone emitted a flagging beep. The battery was dying.

“SAMMY!”

“You're almost there,” came his deep voice.

“They're right behind me!”

“We know. Go straight for one-point-eight miles and stop.”

“I lost a rear tire!”

“You are so close.”

All of a sudden, a deafening blast rocked the night. The ambulance was thrown forward, bumping on the ground. In her rearview mirror, a huge bright orange fireball illuminated the night.

The first jeep behind them stopped at once, engulfed in flames. Then another explosion. The gas tank? She fought the unruly steering.

“What does the ambulance look like?” Sammy asked.

She glanced at the insignia on the steering wheel. “Mitsubishi. An old white van. The lettering is red or black.”

The dirt road was treacherous, rutted and dotted with puddles of murky water. They passed a blighted olive grove followed by plowed fields, and she sped forward, not knowing where she was going. Behind her, a jeep was getting ominously close.

Shots were fired. The ambulance was hit. She bit down on her lip. A flash of light flew past her, and almost immediately she heard a petrifying whistle followed by a loud explosion. A second jeep flew into the air and crashed to the ground, breaking apart into dozens of burning fragments. The willful ambulance pulled to the right, nearly sinking into the soft shoulder.

They were here somewhere. She knew they were here. She just couldn't see them. She braked the ambulance and switched off the engine. There was another blast behind her, and a large flame rose into the sky. The odor of diesel fuel and burning rubber. She didn't look back.

“Can you hear anything?” Zengot asked.

The crackle of flames licking at another jeep. Glass breaking.

“What am I supposed to hear?”

“Hold on. Don't go any closer. Wait for instructions.”

She searched the sky for lights. Nothing.

And then her ears caught the whiz of rotor blades—the most beautiful sound she'd ever heard.

The light cast by the flames rising from the jeeps revealed the outline of a giant steel bird descending awkwardly from the black sky. She turned her head, and a current ran through her: two more jeeps were rapidly approaching, the beams of their headlights bouncing on the road. They skirted the burning vehicle. It wouldn't end . . .

She turned the key, but the engine didn't catch. She tried again and again, the ambulance's battery weakening and her eyes welling with tears. Not now. Not like this.

In her last desperate attempt, the engine awoke, the ambulance shook, and she pressed down on the gas pedal as hard as she could, racing toward the Sikorsky CH-53. The titanic body was caught in her headlights. It landed in the dark, raising a cloud of sand. Its back ramp was facing her. Under its short wings hung external fuel tanks and missiles.

As the loading ramp opened, the blue lights of her pursuers licked at the rear of the ambulance. Her high beams exposed the empty belly of the chopper. She didn't slow down.

Four armed silhouettes jumped out. They spread out, lowered themselves to a kneeling position, and aimed a barrage of fire at the jeeps. Orchidea ignored their hand signals, steering the ambulance toward the center of the ramp as she screamed into the phone, “They're too close! I'm going in!”

“No!” Sammy shouted. “The chopper's roof is too low!”

Assessing the width of the opening and mouthing a prayer, she raced in. Something shattered. She braked. The ambulance skidded to a stop. Shards of red plastic fell from the roof. The headlights lit up the interior of the chopper, revealing several masked figures. Two of them quickly secured the ambulance to the floor as the four shooters ran back inside. The engine roared louder immediately and the chopper detached itself heavily from the ground, leaned forward, and rose into the night. The ramp whooshed closed.

The lights of As-Suwayda twinkled on the left.

A field hospital had been set up in the front of the chopper. A medical team rolled the gurney out of the ambulance, and she
was right beside them. Gerard's face was white. They set to work at once.

As she climbed out of the ambulance, all eyes were on her. Someone held out a canteen of water, but she waved it aside, hurrying after the doctors. She touched Gerard's cold face. His eyes were shut. “Don't die . . .” she whispered. “Please don't die . . .”

Behind a clear plastic curtain, a surgeon held a stethoscope to Gerard's chest and listened intently before grabbing the paddles of a defibrillator.

The Frenchman's body jerked.

They tried again.

She burst into tears.