Frank seemed to take the facts in now, and said, “You’re right, that really is amazing. But then, that’s why we always liked you—you make yourself invisible.”
“So you agree, you can’t think of anyone else?” Frank shook his head questioningly, clearly wondering where this was going. “Don’t you get it, Frank? It means I can start afresh and never worry about this world coming back to haunt me.”
Frank looked suddenly troubled and said, “You’re serious about this? About quitting?” Conrad nodded, causing Frank to look even more uneasy. Hesitantly, he said, “Look, Conrad, it might not be as straightforward as all that. You have to understand the underbelly of this business—it’s more complicated than it seems. What I mean is, getting out isn’t always as simple as saying ‘I quit.’ ”
Conrad realized Frank hadn’t been taking him seriously, that Frank had really believed he was experiencing nothing more than a “wobble.” Now, too late, he was trying to hint at some labyrinthine structure that was hard to escape.
He was missing the point, of course, because the complexity of Eberhardt’s empire, and the criminal underworld that it was a part of, was irrelevant when set against the simple fact that Frank had already confirmed: Conrad didn’t have to find his way out of the labyrinth, just punch his way through four walls.
“Do more than those three people know who I am?”
He looked pained as he said, “No, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“What you’re saying doesn’t matter. I’ve killed a lot of people in ten years, Frank. Killing a few more to get out of the business seems like a good equation to me. The way I see it, the underbelly of the business counts for nothing if no one’s alive who can connect me to it.”
Frank seemed to take a moment to catch up, then looked askance at Conrad and said, “You’ve got to be joking, of course.” He was smiling, relaxed, but his tone was vaguely threatening, maybe because he understood that there were four people in the frame, not three. “Okay, just hypothetically, say you were crazy enough to go down this route, and I don’t think you are, Conrad, not by a long way, but say you were, how would you get Eberhardt?”
Conrad smiled to himself, because he knew he’d calculated correctly. If Eberhardt’s security was the only obstacle Frank could come up with, he was as good as free. He’d never thought any of the killings themselves would present a problem; his only concern had been the possibility of being known by people he’d never actually dealt with.
“It’s funny I couldn’t remember Schmidt’s name because I’ve always remembered something he told me, something about the one constant weak spot in Eberhardt’s security. You do remember that Schmidt was one of his bodyguards for a while?” Frank looked unimpressed, waiting for something more substantial. “The country estate near Birkenstein.”
“I’ve been there many times,” said Frank with satisfaction, which in itself exposed how rattled he was. “Julius spends most of his time there, I know, and despite what Schmidt might have told you, it’s probably the most secure private residence I’ve ever seen. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Conrad, you’re good in the sense that you’re reliable, discreet, detached even—but you’re not James Bond.”
“Maybe I’m a little closer to James Bond than you think.” The words sounded ridiculous, but he knew he had one over on Frank. “It’s not the estate itself. Apparently, our friend Julius has a religious streak. Every Sunday that he’s there, he goes to the chapel in the village, only two bodyguards, in a place that Schmidt told me is a sniper’s paradise.”
Frank nodded nonchalantly, though Conrad could see he’d surprised him. Frank then said, “I knew a couple of snipers way back when. Takes a lot of training and a very particular mind-set—not the same as killing a man at ten feet, not the same at all. It’s not just a question of picking up an M24 off Freddie and hiding in a tree. So tell me, Conrad, where did you get your sniper training? I’m curious.”
Conrad didn’t bother to tell him he’d once known a sniper, too, in Yugoslavia, a guy he’d heard them call “Vasko.” He remembered him, lean and sinewy but smiling a lot, an easy smile, and the muscles in one eye always itching toward a squint. He’d had no specialized training, only years of hunting in the hills, and yet if he could see it through his sights, he could shoot the cigarette out of a man’s mouth. For all Conrad knew, Vasko had survived the war and was back hunting in the hills and forests that were his home.
“I don’t plan on being a mile away, and I won’t be relying on one shot.”