“We need a new hiding place.” Without waiting for Erik’s response, I squeeze through the crates, which have been stacked to form something resembling lanes … and from here I can see Gavin again. He’s entrenched himself behind the crates with two of his people; they’re conferring quietly—do they even have any ammunition left? And if they don’t, how long will it take for their opponents to realize?
No one has pulled Bartsch out from beneath the shelves. One of the heavy crates is covering his body from the waist down, blood is oozing out of his mouth, but he’s still alive. Trying weakly to push away the ton of weight that’s slowly crushing him.
And then suddenly they’re there. Without any sign, without warning.
“Attack,” somebody roars, and the special police commando swarms the building like a horde of black ants.
They barely meet with any resistance. Gavin and his people immediately lay down on the floor with their hands behind their head, and after a brief moment of hesitation, Gabor does the same. Only one of von Ritteck’s men tries to flee, through the hole made by the truck. Three policemen set off in pursuit.
The only glimmer of calm in the middle of all the chaos is the old man. He looks at the policemen with a smile, still holding his pistol in his hand. The machine guns which are pointed at him clearly don’t impress him.
“Drop your weapon!” bellows one of the special unit people.
“Of course,” says von Ritteck. “Just a moment, please.”
He glances over at the dead Lambert, then at the man who Erik attacked. A jolt goes through his body, as if he were standing at attention, as if he’s about to salute. “The seed I’ve planted will grow regardless,” he says. “For Germany.”
In one quick motion he lifts the pistol, puts it in his mouth, and pulls the trigger—simultaneously, the police open fire on him.
I turn away. The seed I’ve planted will grow regardless. We’re going to have so much to explain, Erik and me.
The battle ends almost as quickly as it began. The policemen drag all of von Ritteck’s collaborators out of the building. An officer from the police unit comes toward us. “You’re Joanna Berrigan? Erik Thieben?”
“Yes.” Erik stretches out his hands, palms up. “We’re unarmed. Both of us.”
The man makes sure of it himself, before nodding toward the open gate. “Go outside, you’ll be looked after there.”
Yes, and I have to take care of Gavin and his people. Are they all alive? Will they get into trouble for saving me? I have no idea how legal it was, what they did.
But first …
“I have to speak to the man who’s lying under the shelving unit,” I say. In a friendly tone, without any hint of bossiness or arrogance. “Please. It’s very important.”
The special unit guy shakes his head. “Under no circumstances. We have orders to empty the building immediately.”
“Please.” I put all the despair that has filled me for days into this one word. “I have to understand why all this happened to me, and I think he knows. Please give me the chance to talk to him.”
The man glances over his shoulder, toward one of his colleagues, who nods briefly.
“OK. It will be a little while anyway until we can get hold of a crane that will be able to lift the crate off of him. It doesn’t look good for him.” He hesitates. “You can speak to him briefly, but only in my presence.”
Gabor is led past; his gaze flits over us. He must know what’s awaiting him. Erik and I are alive. We know what really happened at Munich station, but will we be able to prove it all? So much of what has happened could be explained differently. What we have to tell sounds so improbable that I’m sure Gabor’s lawyers would take great pleasure in tearing every sentence apart.
And then what?
Simply going back into the building is harder for me than I thought. But none of the four dead bodies I can see are my father’s people.
From outside, I can hear the sirens of a whole fleet of emergency vehicles as I kneel down next to Bartsch. His face is waxy and white, his cheeks drawn; his breathing is shallow and fitful, but I think he recognizes me.
The thought of demanding something from a dying man seems repugnant, but this is my only opportunity. “Dr. Bartsch?” I wait until his eyes meet mine. “Please. Please, if you can, tell me what happened. What’s wrong with me. You know, don’t you?”
No reaction, at first. Then a tiny, barely visible nod. I lean over closer to him.
“The ambulance is here now,” says the policeman behind me. “You have to go.”
“Yes. Of course. Right away.”
Bartsch’s lips move. His voice is barely a whisper. “Forget it,” he says. He almost smiles, as if he had made a joke. “You forgot so much already. Forget this too.”
“Please,” I say, a little too loud. “Please don’t do this to me.”
There’s something wet in his breath. As though he’s sucking in air and water at the same time. “It’s a shame,” he whispers, “that I won’t live to see you kill him after all. Because you will.”
50
I’m standing in front of a police van and Joanna’s a few feet away, just inside the sliding door of an emergency vehicle, sitting on the floor. A woman wearing an orange paramedic’s jacket has draped a blanket over her shoulders and is talking to her in a calm voice.
There are dark streaks and marks all over Joanna’s face. Dirt and blood, mixed with tears, smudged all over her cheeks and forehead. Her hair is pasted to her head in strands. Something inside me is screaming to go over and take her into my arms. To press her against me, so tightly that I can feel her with every fiber of my being. To close my eyes and let the liberating certainty wash over us that we came through it, that we survived.
“Over here please, Herr Thieben.” One of the two detectives who led me over to the police vehicle points inside it. He’d introduced himself as Chief K?nig. “Let’s take a drive.”
“What about my fiancée?” I ask, gesturing over toward Joanna. The policeman follows my gaze.
“She’s still being treated, but you’ll see her later at the station.”
I take a demonstrative step back and shake my head. “No, I’ll wait for her.”
The second man, a somewhat portly, half-bald detective whose name I’ve forgotten, puts his hand on my shoulder. It’s too firm to be a friendly gesture.
“That wasn’t a request, even if my colleague put it politely. Get in the car now. Frau Berrigan will be brought to the station shortly.”
I want to tell the man that I’m sick and tired of being ordered around. That he should take a moment to imagine what we’ve just been through, and that he can take his orders and shove them where the sun don’t shine. Just a second later, though, I remind myself that we were just involved in a shooting that resulted in numerous casualties, and that these men probably saved our lives.
My eyes remain fixed on Joanna. “All right, but I’d at least like to go and see her quickly.”
“Hurry up then,” K?nig says before the portly man can answer.
Joanna gets up as I approach. The blanket slides off her shoulders, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She just stands there, looking at me. We embrace, caress each other. Hold each other in silence. Sometimes you don’t need words.
Joanna breaks away from me and touches her hand to my cheek. A semblance of a smile flits over her face. You can go, it probably means. Everything’s OK now.