I’m so tired that I do it without protesting. Only once I sink down onto the couch do I realize that Erik probably sent me away to make sure I was safe.
But our concern is unfounded. Just half a minute later, Erik comes back and lays the contents of the envelope before me on the table. It’s just a USB stick, black and slim. “We’ve often used that brand at work,” he says.
We look at each other, nod silently. We should probably hand this stick over to the police, but not before we know what’s on it.
Erik puts his laptop on the coffee table, opens it, and puts the stick into the USB slot.
Five files. Three pictures in JPEG format, and an audio file. And a Word document named For Joanna.doc. I point my index finger at it. “Open that first, please.”
Erik hesitates for a second, then opens it.
The text is no longer than half a page. It’s full of typos, and some run-on words.
I’m so sorry. Erik is dead and it’s partly my fault. I acepted it as collateral damage for a cause I believe in and whos aims for our country are minetoo—the means of achieving them, however, are not. I didn’t think my organization was capable of something like the attack on munich station, I didnt know about it beforehand, you have to believe me, please. But I can stil warn you, Joanna. We spoke on the phone a few hour ago, perhaps youre already in the process of hidng, I really hope you are. Probably you willnever read what I’m writing here, but I need to tell you what I knw. I didnt come by that evening because I had problems with mycomputer, but because I wanted to seewhat had gone wrong. Listen to the recording I sent then you will unnerstand. Good luck. I’m on my way out of the country. I’m really sorry.
Bernhard Morbach
* * *
Erik has put his arm around my shoulders. We exchange a quick glance. “The photos first,” I say. I don’t know why, but I dread listening to the audio file. Then you’ll understand—on the one hand I want to understand, I have to, but on the other hand I’m so terribly afraid of what I might hear. What if it turns out I really was in on it with von Ritteck, Gabor, and the others, and that I just forgot about it? Just like I forgot Erik?
* * *
The first picture. Lots of green. Lush vegetation on the beach. Palm trees. And some distance away two figures, one of which is me, or someone who looks very similar to me. The other is a man, or rather a boy, with coffee-colored skin.
I have no idea when or where the photo was taken.
“The beaches at home don’t look like that,” I murmur.
Erik looks at me. “That’s Antigua.” He opens the next photo. The boy and I are in sharper focus now: he’s laughing and pointing out to sea. I’m standing there, my hands in the pockets of my shorts, and looking at what he’s showing me.
“Did you take these?” I ask Erik. “That would explain why you’re not in them.”
“No.” He zooms in on the picture. “I’ve never seen that bay before, I don’t think.”
I can feel something like a hum, a silent vibration inside me. A name. But no memory.
On the third photo, I’m standing in the water up to my knees, and something is coming into the frame from the right, probably the bow of a boat. And a hand is reaching out toward me.
“You did wander off by yourself that one time.” He puts a hand on my knee, and I have to pull myself together in order not to flinch away. It’s not Erik’s fault I’m feeling so worked up, it’s because this picture doesn’t ring a bell at all. Antigua is a complete unknown to me; until recently I would have sworn I’ve never set foot on the island. Let alone on this beach, but there I stand, unmistakably, laughing.
“OK. Then let’s listen to the file now.”
Erik clicks on the file, and the audio player on his notebook opens. I lower my gaze; my heart is hammering so strongly I can actually see it rather than just feel it. I close my eyes.
At first there’s just the sound of water rushing, nothing but that. Rising and falling. The sound of the sea. Then a crackle and a voice, coming closer midsentence. “That was fifty milligrams of scopolamine; it shouldn’t put her to sleep.” Bartsch’s voice, mixed with a dragging sound, as if someone was pulling up a chair. “Are we recording?”
“Yes.”
Erik takes a sharp intake of breath next to me and stops the player. “That’s Bernhard’s voice. I don’t believe it; he and Bartsch were on Antigua? At the same time as us?”
“So it seems.” I remember what Gabor had said earlier in the warehouse. You couldn’t wait to get on the plane. “Keep playing it, please.”
Erik clicks on the play button, and the voice returns. Bartsch. For a moment I even think I can smell his aftershave.
“Good. It’s important to me that everything is documented.” A short pause, then he speaks again, in a different, warmer tone. “Hello, Joanna. I’m very pleased to have you on board.”
“Yes. I’m … pleased too.”
It’s me. Without a doubt. My voice, the soft accent, the one I always think I’ve managed to lose until I hear recordings of myself. I lean against Erik, he puts an arm around me; only now do I realize that I’m trembling.
“So, Joanna. Are you lying comfortably? Yes? Wonderful. You’re relaxed. You feel good. Please look into the little light here.”
“OK.”
“Follow it with your eyes. Yes, just like that. You’re doing a great job.”
I reach for Erik’s arm, cling onto it, because I suddenly feel as though I’m losing contact with my surroundings. As if gravity had ceased to exist, only for me.
“You’re very calm. Everything that has been bothering you is far away. You’re focusing only on this light and my voice.”
Erik strokes my face, carefully touching my split lip. “Don’t drift off, Jo. Look at me, are you OK?”
I nod anxiously, tighten my grip on his arm, and the swaying feeling recedes.
“And now listen to me closely, Joanna.” Bartsch begins to speak in a tone which is friendly, but commanding. “It’s going to be early morning, and the telephone will ring. You will hear my voice, which will say only two words. Dead light. You hang up the phone. You’re feeling good. You feel well. You will have a fulfilling, enjoyable day.
“At five o’clock in the afternoon, you go into the kitchen. You—”
Something interrupts him. Sounds, a loud clatter. Then voices, not speaking German, but English. Two men, and they sound a little farther away than Bartsch. There’s probably a wall between them and me, or simply a greater distance. Their voices are completely unfamiliar.
“Ben? Where’s Ben?”
“Get out of here, right now!”
“But I can’t find him, is he—”
“Forget about him. Do you understand? Forget that you ever met him, forget that he exists. And get rid of his stuff, everything. Quickly.”
“But—”
“It’s important! Do what I tell you! Now!”
Another clatter. A scream of protest, then a splash, as if something had fallen into the water. Or someone.
The whole thing only lasts ten seconds, and now the silence returns, only to be interrupted moments later by the sound of someone clearing their throat and Bartsch’s voice, very close now. “Joanna. Are you still OK?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”