The Lost Symphony, page 37
A man answered almost immediately. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Come downstairs. I’ll meet you in the bar.’
As soon as Aldar saw Anielka walking towards him, he knew something was wrong. ‘I am Aldar,’ he said. ‘Frieda and Zuzanna sent me. I’ve been expecting you.’
‘I think I’ve killed him,’ Anielka blurted out.
‘Keep your voice down! What are you talking about?’
‘Jack attacked me and I stabbed him. I think he’s dead.’
‘Where did this happen?’
‘Just now, in our room.’
Used to dealing with pressure and the unexpected, Aldar evaluated the situation. ‘Listen carefully. This is what I want you to do.’
Anielka nodded, reassured by the calm voice addressing her.
‘Go back to your room, take his wallet and his phone. Clear?’
Anielka nodded again.
‘And most important of all, take his notebook and come back down straight away. Leave everything else exactly as it is and leave the door to your room open. Understood? Now go!’
As Anielka walked back to the lifts, Aldar ordered another Scotch and rang his driver.
A few minutes after Aldar and Anielka had left the hotel, a maid walking along the corridor on Jack’s floor noticed that one of the doors was left open. First she knocked, but when there was no reply she opened the door and looked inside. At first she thought the man lying on the floor must have had some kind of medical episode, but when she walked over to him and saw the blood, she began to scream.
Part IV
Mat’ Rossiya
65
Fuehrerbunker, Berlin: 30 April 1945, Walpurgisnacht
Hitler was preparing to die. His evil empire had collapsed, and the Third Reich was about to pass into history. It was 30 April, Walpurgisnacht, a night of carnal feasting with witches and demons in German folklore. It was the night when evil forces roamed the land and bonfires were lit to ward them off as part of pagan rituals dating back to pre-Christian times.
The Fuehrer had dictated his final message and had his favourite dog, Blondi, poisoned. In his message he advised his generals that the defence of Berlin was over, and that he would kill himself rather than surrender. The Russians were closing in on the Chancellery, and it was only a matter of hours before they would break into the bunker. The iconic building, a symbol of Nazi power, had been under relentless Russian artillery fire throughout the night. The Russians were now very close. They had reached the Tiergarten and were shelling the nearby Potsdamer Platz.
Hitler stepped out of his private quarters deep down in the bunker under the Chancellery, to make his final farewells. Slowly, he walked along the crowded dining passage and shook hands with loyal members of his entourage. Everyone present knew the end was near. When he came to Wolfbauer, he stopped and looked at his favourite SS officer.
‘It has been a pleasure knowing you, Herr Major,’ said Hitler and held out his hand. Wolfbauer stood to attention and shook hands with the Fuehrer.
‘It has been a privilege to serve you, Mein Fuehrer,’ said Wolfbauer, his eyes misting over.
‘Pity the icon couldn’t work its magic, although I am convinced that was only because of disloyalty and betrayal, especially by Goering and Himmler, and, of course, my generals. No matter; it’s too late now. I have left something in my room for you,’ continued Hitler, lowering his voice. ‘When I am dead and my body has been removed, I want you to go in there and get it. Take it with you. I don’t want it to fall into Russian hands. Understood?’
‘Jahwohl, Mein Fuehrer,’ said Wolfbauer and clicked his heels.
Hitler nodded, turned around, and retired to his rooms.
Bormann, Goebbels and a few others stood in the passageway outside Hitler’s quarters, waiting, the tension almost unbearable. Standing in the shadows behind them, Wolfbauer waited too, only he was on a mission. He would carry out the Fuehrer’s last wish to the letter.
At three-thirty pm, a shot was heard. Bormann and Goebbels hesitated for a few moments, and then entered the Fuehrer’s rooms. Hitler had shot himself in the mouth and lay on a sofa – his face disfigured – blood dripping from a huge wound. Eva Braun lay next to him. She had taken poison.
After the bodies had been wrapped in army blankets, they were carried up to the garden, dropped into a shell hole, and had petrol poured over them. Hitler’s valet then ignited the petrol and set the corpses on fire.
Bormann and Goebbels stood to attention and raised their right hands in a Nazi salute as the flames engulfed the remains of one of the most evil dictators the world had ever seen. Behind them stood Wolfbauer, doing the same, but he didn’t stay. While the others were still watching the flames, mesmerised, he hurried back down into the bunker and went straight to Hitler’s quarters.
Wolfbauer closed the door behind him and looked around the deserted room. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. The leather case with the icon was on a table next to the sofa on which Hitler had killed himself. Wolfbauer opened the case, looked inside and smiled. He would make sure that Kazanskaya Bogomater would not fall into Russian hands. Then he closed the case and hurried out of the room, smelling of cordite.
66
Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport: 7 March 2017
Lapointe looked at the indicator board and smiled. The Aeroflot flight from Yekaterinburg had just landed. ‘Well, Claude, this is it,’ he said, and turned to Dupree standing next to him. ‘You were right all along.’
‘Everything in place?’ asked Dupree.
‘Sure. We can stay here and let the boys do their job. They are all in place and chomping at the bit to make an arrest.’
‘Seniority is a wonderful thing, don’t you think?’
‘It has its moments. We’ll take her straight back to HQ for questioning. We’ll take Rogan along as well, of course. You can sit in on the interviews, if you like.’
‘I would appreciate that, thanks. What about Malenkova?’
‘Interviews first. She isn’t going anywhere in a hurry. We have to play this by the book. The more we have to link her to the murders, the stronger our case. I don’t want some fancy lawyer throwing a spanner in the works because we jumped the gun.’
Dupree nodded. Playing things by the book was one of Lapointe’s strong points, and the reason he was so popular with the prosecutors. The power of patience.
Moments later, a young officer walked up to Lapointe and saluted.
‘We have a problem, Chief Superintendent,’ said the officer, looking decidedly flustered.
‘What kind of problem?’
‘They are not on the flight.’
‘What? Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
A fuming Lapointe had said barely a word during the drive back to HQ. He was trying to get his head around the disaster and had stormed straight into his office after their arrival, to make enquiries. He had left Dupree in the waiting room and asked him to call Jack on his mobile and try to make contact.
Half an hour later, Lapointe came out of his office and walked over to Dupree.
‘I couldn’t raise him,’ said Dupree. ‘I tried several times, but—’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Lapointe and lit his pipe.
‘Oh?’
‘Rogan’s in intensive care in hospital in Yekaterinburg, lucky to be alive.’
‘What on earth happened?’
Lapointe shot Dupree a meaningful look. ‘He was stabbed last night in his hotel room.’
‘Alina?’
‘What do you think?’
Dupree shrugged.
‘The Russian authorities seem to think it was some kind of robbery, but we know better, don’t we, Claude?’
‘Do we know where she is?’
‘No. Disappeared without a trace.’
‘Merde!’
67
Frieda Malenkova’s crypt: 7 March 2017
‘I came as soon as I could,’ said Zuzanna. ‘You are leaving?’ She stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down into the crypt below. ‘What happened?’
Malenkova had called Zuzanna earlier and told her to prepare to disappear – urgently.
‘Quite a lot,’ replied Malenkova. She stood in front of an open wall safe and was stuffing money into a leather portmanteau. ‘I think this is the end of the road – for us, I mean – at least for now.’
‘How so?’
‘Rogan’s dead. Anielka killed him. She’s out of control. Dmitri has taken her out of Russia.’
‘What? Are you serious? What happened?’
‘Don’t know. But there’s more,’ said Malenkova, putting the last bundles of cash from the safe into the bag. ‘Quasimodo just sent me a message from the police station. He’s in custody, being interrogated. Lapointe knows about our connection to Anielka, and it’s only a matter of time before he comes with a warrant. I want to make sure that when he does, the nest is empty. That’s about it, and I strongly suggest that you do the same. There’s little time. The only reason he isn’t here right now pulling the place apart is because Anielka’s disappeared. On the run, he thinks. And as we know, she’s the centrepiece of his case. He must be furious.’
Malenkova chuckled as she closed her bag. It was obvious to Zuzanna that she was enjoying herself and thriving on the challenge and the adventure of it all. ‘I’ve activated my exit plan. By the time Lapointe gets his act together, I will be long gone.’
‘I … don’t … think … so,’ said Zuzanna slowly.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Malenkova, frowning.
Slowly, Zuzanna turned around and lifted up a large metal canister. Then she unscrewed its top and began to pour its contents over the balustrade down into the crypt below.
‘What are you doing?’ shouted Malenkova. ‘I can smell petrol!’
‘You can, because it is. I’ve waited for a long time for this,’ said Zuzanna calmly, and continued to empty the canister. Then she took a box of matches out of her pocket and held it up. ‘Your life in my hands; at last!’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Let me tell you a little story,’ began Zuzanna. ‘We have to travel back in time a bit. It’s 1987. You are working for your father, the notorious Stasi Major General in East Berlin. You are his assistant, helping him with particularly sensitive cases—’
‘What nonsense is this?’ interrupted Malenkova in a shrill voice.
Zuzanna held up her hand. ‘Bear with me. This won’t take long. Does the name Professor Gero von Babenberg ring a bell? He was a university lecturer teaching modern history in Leipzig, and was considered an enemy of the state because of his views and outspoken manner.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘But you and your father had a file on him as thick as a telephone book, reaching into every corner of his life, both personal and professional.’
‘I don’t understand. Where is this going?’
‘You sabotaged his career and undermined his reputation. You hounded him mercilessly. You even managed to recruit his son, who became your most valuable informer. It was a coup – your coup – and you were even commended for it and promoted. Do you remember now?’ said Zuzanna, becoming emotional. ‘Turning his son against him was the final straw that destroyed him. He took his own life in 1987.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ shrieked Malenkova.
‘Because Professor Babenberg was my father!’ Zuzanna paused and stared at Malenkova.
‘After the Berlin wall came down and the hated Stasi came crashing down with it,’ continued Zuzanna, ‘I made a promise. I promised myself that I would hunt down the perpetrators who destroyed my father.’
‘This is insane! I know nothing about this. You are mistaken.’
‘Liar! When the notorious Stasi files became public and the archives were opened and access was given to the people, I went to work. It took some digging and some time, but I finally found the files. Your files!’
This is serious, thought Malenkova as the enormity of her predicament became clear. She was trapped in an enclosed, underground space with only one exit, barred by a fanatical madwoman consumed by vengeance. Suddenly everything made sense and fell into place. As Zuzanna became more agitated, Malenkova inched closer to the open safe. She always kept a loaded Glock in there. An old habit from her Stasi days.
‘It took me some time to find you, but I did. And now, here we are. You and me. The day of reckoning has arrived!’
‘You are mad!’
‘I don’t think so. I have assembled a dossier about you with enough evidence to send you to jail for the rest of your life. I was going to send it to Lapointe, but events have obviously overtaken us. You are too slippery and too cunning to be caught. Always staying in the shadows and letting others do the dirty work has paid off. I can see that now.’
‘Calm down, Zuzanna, and think! We can come to some arrangement here. Let’s be reasonable about all this. It was a long time ago, a different world!’
‘Perhaps for you, but not for me! After the wall came down, my mother and I went back to her native Poland. I am using her maiden name. There was nothing left for us in Germany. She died a few years later, a broken woman.’
Slowly, Malenkova reached into the wall safe behind her without taking her eyes off Zuzanna standing at the top of the stairs like a fury, and kept feeling for the gun.
‘They call you the Black Widow, but you are much more than that. You are an evil witch without a conscience who sold her soul to the devil long ago. And do you know what they used to do with witches? They burned them alive! And that is precisely what will happen to you now,’ shouted Zuzanna. She took a match out of the box and held it up. ‘One spark is all it takes.’
Zuzanna was about to light the match when Malenkova found the gun in the safe. Holding it tight, she withdrew her hand, took aim and fired. The bullet hit Zuzanna in the shoulder. She lost her balance and staggered backwards. The box of matches fell out of her hand and hit the floor.
‘Or one bullet,’ shouted Malenkova, and fired again. The second bullet hit Zuzanna in the chest. As she sank to her knees, she could just see the box of matches lying tantalisingly close directly in front of her on the landing. Crawling towards it on all fours and ignoring the excruciating pain, she tried to reach the box, but her fingers wouldn’t obey as her vision became blurred.
Malenkova hobbled closer to the stairs to improve her aim, and lifted the gun again.
Mustering all of her remaining strength, Zuzanna managed to reach the box of matches with her outstretched hand. The box was half open. She picked it up with one hand – her fingers shaking – and pulled out one of the matches with the other. Drifting in and out of consciousness, she could see her father’s smiling face looking down on her from above.
‘For you, Papa,’ she whispered, and lit the match just as Malenkova pulled the trigger. With half her face blown away, Zuzanna fell forward, and tumbled down the steep stairs.
Moments later, the crypt erupted and drowned in a sea of flames.
‘What’s that?’ said Dupree and pointed to a plume of smoke as the police car turned into the lane leading to Malenkova’s house.
‘The place is on fire!’ said Lapointe. ‘That’s all we need!’
The area in front of the house was a hive of activity. Two fire engines were parked in the driveway with hoses criss-crossing the path leading to the open front door. A dozen firemen were working furiously to put out the flames, which by now had engulfed the entire roof.
Lapointe jumped out of the car and walked over to one of the firemen. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
The fireman pointed to a woman standing next to one of the fire engines. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and was crying.
‘That’s the housekeeper over there; she called us,’ said the fireman. ‘According to her, the fire started somewhere in the basement. There were two women down there when it happened.’ The fireman shook his head. ‘By the time we got here, it was too late. We couldn’t go inside. I suspect some kind of accelerant may have been used. The fire is ferocious. Deliberately lit, I’d say.’
Dupree stared into the flames and shuddered as the burning roof collapsed, conjuring up painful memories of the recent blaze that had destroyed his home and killed his son. Sensing his friend’s distress, Lapointe turned to Dupree.
‘I suppose we can tear up the arrest warrant?’ he said. ‘Our work’s done here for now; what do you think?’
‘Poetic justice?’
Lapointe shrugged. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe.
68
Breakfast at La Closerie des Lilas, Paris: 8 March 2017
Mademoiselle Darrieux was waiting for Countess Kuragin at her usual table by the window. She had received an early morning phone call from her friend, inviting her to breakfast because she had something important to discuss. Sensing the seriousness of the occasion, Darrieux had decided to wear something conservative and subdued, which was somewhat out of character.
Darrieux watched the countess as the maître d’ seated her at the table with his usual flair. To have such distinguished guests in his dining room for breakfast so early in the morning was a treat.
When Darrieux had a closer look at the countess, she knew instantly something was wrong. She recognised the all-too-familiar signs: the dark rings under the eyes hinted at sleepless nights, and the stern facial expression suggested stress and serious concern. Instead of wasting time with pleasantries, Darrieux decided to come straight to the point.
