Until now, the man hasn’t so much as glanced in my direction, but now he looks at me for the first time. For a long while. Without expression.
I don’t avert my gaze; after all, I have nothing left to lose now. “Phoenix cannot be allowed to fail,” he says, before turning to look at Gabor again. “Just out of interest: do you realize who you have in your custody here?” He points the head of his stick toward me.
“Yes, of course. That’s Erik Thieben’s fiancée. Her name is Joanna.”
“Aha.” Von Ritteck slowly shifts his weight from his right leg to his left. “Joanna what?”
It’s clear from Gabor’s face that he considers this question to be no more than an annoyance. That a response like “but that’s irrelevant” lies on the tip of his tongue, and that he only stops himself from saying it out of respect and, most likely, fear too. “Joanna Berrigan. She’s Australian, a photographer, and she’s been living in Germany for about a year.”
“Correct, except unfortunately you seem to have missed the most important detail,” von Ritteck says, interrupting him. “So maybe I should fill you in, then. Berrigan, huh? Think for a moment, Gabor.” He waits for a few seconds. “Doesn’t the name mean anything to you? No? Just as I suspected. I have no intention of making a speech about the influence and fortune of her father, so I’ll just say this: she is not the kind of person you can simply make disappear without having to face consequences to surpass your wildest imaginations.”
He’s caught Gabor out, that’s obvious. His gaze flits over to me, then back over to von Ritteck, who is pulling his pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “How come I know that and you don’t, Gabor? Can you explain that to me?”
“No.” Gabor draws himself up. “Clearly this oversight is my responsibility. But if the plan that I initiated months ago had worked, this problem would have been solved all at once.”
Von Ritteck sighs. “And so I’ll solve it for you. Because I have to. You’re incompetent, Gabor. You’re not worthy of being part of Squadron 444.”
For the first time, the rage which Gabor must have been stifling with all his might starts to surface. “Yes, I failed. But it wasn’t just me. You sent me Bartsch with the assurance that he was first-class. An expert on the human psyche, those were your words. But if he had fulfilled his task correctly…”
Bartsch had remained in the background until that moment. Now he steps out of the shadows and goes to stand next to von Ritteck. “I fulfilled my task exactly as was required of me. The idea was yours, Gabor. It was good, I don’t question that. But it wasn’t airtight.”
Gabor, who suddenly sees himself confronted by two opponents, laughs mockingly. “Oh, so all of a sudden it wasn’t airtight? That’s not how it sounded two months ago. Back then you couldn’t wait to get on the plane.”
Bartsch shakes his head. “Stop it, you’re not putting the blame on me. I didn’t make any mistakes here.”
“Oh no?” Gabor stretches out his arm and points at me. “If that were true, then we’d have a killer here with us.”
48
Gabor had said that the warehouse was located behind a high wall, and the wall I’m standing in front of right now has to be the one. Once I walk around it and have a clear view of the site behind, I spot a black limousine parked right in front of the warehouse. I instinctively take a few steps to the side and conceal myself behind a pile of stacked pallets.
Are the occupants of the limo some of Gabor’s people?
I look at my watch. In two minutes’ time the half hour will be up; I’m going to have to chance it. There’s no more time to lose.
Soon I’m standing in the driveway, which is roughly ten feet wide.
The warehouse is set a little off to the back. Entrances painted in different colors and loading ramps indicate that several companies share ownership of the building. The open space outside, however, is mostly empty. There are only a few cars at the far right end of the warehouse, near where I’m meant to go to, according to Gabor’s instructions.
He said I had to go to a blue gate. There it is, up ahead, right where the limousine is parked.
I get to the spot one minute after the time limit expires. The gate is locked. I look around, have no clue what I’m supposed to do now. Gabor didn’t tell me anything, and I hadn’t thought of asking him either.
Time is running out. I ball my fist and hammer on the gate several times. To minimal effect. The steel of the gate almost completely swallows the sound of my knocking, and my hand starts to hurt. I turn around and kick it with my heel. The result barely differs from my first attempt.
“Hey, stop that.”
I don’t know where the man came from all of a sudden. He’s standing off to my side, and the weapon in his hand doesn’t leave me with any doubt about who he’s with.
“My name is Erik Thieben,” I carefully tell him. “I’d like to see Herr Gabor.”
“Shut up and come with me.”
He directs me away from the gate and around the corner of the warehouse. The distance between the outer wall and the actual warehouse wall is only about six and a half feet here. There’s another man standing in front of a door. He’s tall, heavyset, stone-faced. He takes a step aside, freeing up the entryway.
A narrow passage lies ahead of me, ending in a set of swinging double doors. About halfway through, a smaller corridor branches off to the right.
“Go straight,” the guy at my back orders.
The doors swing open without any effort, revealing an area of the warehouse which is divided off from the rest. I quickly look all around me, trying to get an overview of the situation.
This section of the warehouse is about four hundred feet in length and breadth. Narrow skylights on the right-hand side as well as a few glass panels in the roof diffuse the steel and concrete construction with a dull, colorless light. It smells of oil; the stone floor is almost completely saturated with dark stains. High shelves are on either side of the room, wooden boxes and loaded pallets in front of them, which seem to be full of machines or components for building some type of large equipment. The middle of the room is empty, right over to the opposite wall, which has a built-in roll-up door, high and wide enough to let a large truck through.
Two forklifts are parked nearby. A group of people are standing in front of them, and the entire group turns around to look at us. I think I recognize Gabor and Bartsch. But where’s Joanna?
Not even waiting for an order from the man behind me, I start moving. I only suppress the urge to run with difficulty. What have they done to Joanna? My steps get faster and faster. “Hey, slow down!” the guy behind me shouts. Screw him.
Then, finally, I see her. One of Gabor’s men had obstructed my view of her. One of them is holding her from behind, with his hand over her mouth.
The relief I feel lasts for just a second; then I see the weapons pointed at me.