Improbably, the answer had come at the funeral, a gratifyingly small gathering. The old man had been a bargee all his adult life, but he had never had any talent for friendship. Nobody cared enough to give up a cargo to pay their last respects at the crematorium service. The new master of the Wilhelmina Rosen recognized most of the mourners as retired deckhands and skippers who had nothing better to do with their days.
But as they filed out at the end of the impersonal service, an elderly man he’d never seen before plucked at his sleeve. ‘I knew your grandfather,’ he said. ‘I’d like to buy you a drink.’
He didn’t know what people said to get out of social obligations they didn’t want. He’d so seldom been invited anywhere, he’d never had to learn. ‘All right,’ he’d said, and followed the man from the austere funeral suite.
‘Do you have a car?’ the elderly man said. ‘I came in a taxi.’
He nodded, and led the way to his grandfather’s old Ford. That was something he planned to change, just as soon as the lawyers gave him the go-ahead to start spending the old man’s money. In the car, his passenger directed him away from the city and out into the countryside. They ended up at an inn that sat at a crossroads. The elderly man bought a couple of beers and pointed him to the beer garden.
They’d sat down in a sheltered corner, the watery spring sunshine barely warm enough for outside drinking. ‘I’m Heinrich Holtz.’ The introduction came with a quizzical look. ‘Did he ever mention me? Heini?’
He shook his head. ‘No, never.’
Holtz exhaled slowly. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. What we shared, it wasn’t something any of us like to talk about.’ He sipped his beer with the fastidiousness of the occasional drinker.
Whoever Holtz was, he clearly wasn’t from the world of commercial barge traffic. He was a small, shrivelled man, his narrow shoulders hunched in on themselves as if he found himself perpetually in a cold wind. His watery grey eyes peered out from nests of wrinkles, his look sidelong rather than direct.
‘How did you know my grandfather?’ he asked.
The answer, and the story that came with it, changed his life. Finally, he understood why his childhood had been made hell. But it was rage that welled up inside him, not forgiveness. At last, he could see where the light was. At last, he had a mission that would shatter the glacial grip of fear that had paralysed him for so long and stripped him of everything that other people took for granted.
That night in Heidelberg had simply been the next stage in that project. He’d planned scrupulously, and since he was still at liberty, he’d clearly made no mistakes that mattered. But he’d learned a lot from that first execution, and there were a couple of things he’d do differently in future.
He was planning a long future.
He powered up the small crane that lifted his shiny Volkswagen Golf from the rear deck of the Wilhelmina Rosen on to the dock. Then he checked that everything was in his bag as it should be: notepad, pen, scalpel, spare blades, adhesive tape, thin cord and a funnel. The small jar containing formalin, tightly screwed shut. All present and correct. He checked his watch. Plenty of time to get to Leiden for his appointment. He tucked his cellphone into his jacket pocket and began to attach the car to the crane.
The applause broke in waves over Daniel Barenboim’s head as he turned back to the orchestra, gesturing to them to rise. Nothing quite like Mozart to provoke goodwill to all men, Tadeusz mused, clapping soundlessly in his lonely box. Katerina had loved opera, almost as much as she loved dressing up for a night out in their box at the Staatsoper. Who cared where the money came from? It was how you spent it that counted. And Katerina had understood about spending with style, spending in ways that made life feel special for everyone around her. The prime seats at the opera had been her idea, though it had seemed entirely fitting to him. Coming tonight had felt like a rite of passage, but he hadn’t wanted to share his space, least of all with any of the several preening women who had made a point of offering their condolences in the foyer ahead of the performance.
He waited till most of the audience had filed out, gazing unseeing at the fire curtain that shut off the stage. Then he stood up, shaking the creases out of his conservatively tailored dinner jacket. He slipped into his sable coat, reaching inside a pocket to turn his phone back on. Finally, he walked out of the opera house into the starry spring night. He brushed past the chattering groups and turned on to Unter den Linden, walking towards the spotlit spectacle of the Brandenburg Gate, the new Reichstag gleaming over to the right. It was a couple of miles to his apartment in Charlottenburg, but tonight he preferred to be out on the Berlin streets rather than sealed off inside his car. Like a vampire, he needed a transfusion of life. He couldn’t stand to play the social game yet, but there was an energy abroad in the city at night that fed him.
He had just passed the Soviet War Memorial at the start of the Tiergarten when his phone vibrated against his hip. Impatiently, he pulled it out. ‘Hello?’
‘Boss?’
He recognized Krasic’s deep bass. ‘Yes?’ he replied. No names on a cellphone; there were too many nerds out there with nothing better to do than scan the airwaves for stray conversations. Not to mention the various agencies of the state, constantly monitoring their citizens as assiduously as they ever had when the Red Menace still surrounded them.
‘We have a problem,’ Krasic said. ‘We need to talk. Where will I find you?’
‘I’m walking home. I’ll be at Siegessäule in about five minutes.’
‘I’ll pick you up there.’ Krasic ended the call abruptly.
Tadeusz groaned. He stopped for a moment, staring up at the sky through the budding branches of the trees. ‘Katerina,’ he said softly, as if addressing a present lover. At moments like this, he wondered if the bleak emptiness that was her legacy would ever dissipate. Right now, it seemed to grow worse with every passing day.
He squared his shoulders and strode out for the towering monument to Prussia’s military successes that Hitler had moved from its original site to form a traffic island, emphasizing its domineering height. The gilded winged victory that crowned the Siegessäule gleamed like a beacon in the city lights, facing France in defiant denial of the past century’s defeats. Tadeusz paused at the corner. There was no sign of Krasic yet, and he didn’t want to loiter there looking obvious. Caution was, in his experience, its own reward. He crossed the road to the monument itself and strolled around the base, pretending to study the elaborate mosaics showing the reunification of the German people. My grandmother’s Polish heart would shrivel in her breast if she could see me here, he thought. I can hear her now. ‘I didn’t raise you to become the Prince of Charlottenburg,’ she’d be screaming at me. At the thought, his lips curled in a sardonic smile.
A dark Mercedes pulled up at the kerb and discreetly flashed its lights. Tadeusz crossed the roundabout and climbed in the open door. ‘Sorry to spoil your evening, Tadzio,’ Krasic said. ‘But, like I told you, we’ve got a problem.’
‘It’s OK,’ Tadeusz said, leaning back against the seat and unbuttoning his coat as the car moved off down Bismarckstrasse. ‘My evening was spoiled by a bastard on a BMW, not by you. So, what’s this problem?’
‘Normally, I wouldn’t bother about something like this, but … That package of brown we brought up from the Chinese? You remember?’
‘I’m not likely to forget. I haven’t had my hands on the product for so long, it’s not as if I could confuse it. What about it?’
‘It looks like there’s some sort of crap in it. There’s