Along with a walk-in pantry, this antique constituted the cabin's
kitchen. Here also the professor had no luck. Muttering quietly, he
recrossed room and opened the bedroom door.
When he saw what lay beyond, his chest muscles contracted with a force
he thought would burst his heart. On the bed directly before him, bound
to the brass bedframe with a thick leather belt, Karl Riemeck stared
sightlessly ahead, his face contorted in a mask of rage,
incomprehension, and pain.
A huge freshly clotted stain of blood blossomed on the caretaker's chest
like an obscene flower.
Natterman became as a child. His bowels boiled; urine dribbled into his
trousers. He desperately wanted to run, but he had no idea where safety
lay. He whirled back toward the main room. Empty and pristine as a
magazine photograph.
Unable to focus on Karl, he stumbled to the front door and locked it.
'My God, my God, my God,' he muttered, bending over and putting his
hands on his knees. 'My God!' His chant was a mantra. An incantation.
A way to begin thinking. A way back to reality.
Forcing down the wave of bile that struggled to erupt from his throat,
the old professor stood erect and strode back into the bedroom to see if
he could do anything for his friend. He ignored the gore that matted
the shirt, and placed his hand directly over Karl's heart.
Still. Natterman had expected nothing. He knew death when he saw it.
Perhaps it was the shock of Karl's death that dulled Natterman's
instincts, blinding him to further danger. Perhaps it was fatigue.
But when the cold hand reached from beneath the bed and locked itself
around his spindly ankle, he froze. He opened his mouth to scream, but
no sound came. Again his brain shut itself off against reality. The
iron claw jerked his feet from under him; he crashed to the floor like a
sack of kindling, certain that his hip was broken.
Moaning in pain and terror, he tried to crawl toward the doorway, but
strong arms caught his shoulders and spun him onto his back. When his
eyes focused, a flashing silver blade filled almost his entire field of
vision. Beyond it he saw only a mane of blond hair. He tried to
breathe, but an anvil seemed to have settled on his chest. When the
pressure eased slightly, then moved higher, he realized the anvil was a
man's knee.
'You have something I want, old man!'
The words were quick and angry, the voice flint against stone.
The knee pressed down so hard into Natterman's chest that he could not
have spoken if he wanted to.
'Answer me!' the man screamed.
That's not a British accent, Natterman thought with relief, his mind on
the safety of the Spandau papers. Thank God!
It's only a robber-a rvbber who has killed Karl. The professor's brain
raced through its knowledge of languages, trying to place the unfamiliar
accent, but to no avail. Dutch maybe?
The blond man flicked the blade back and forth in a lethal dance, then
inserted the point deep into Natterman's left nostril.
'Don't be stubborn like your friend, old man. It cost him -what little
life he had left. Now, talk.'
The pressure eased a little. 'Take whatever you want!'
Natterman rasped. 'My God, poor Karl-'
'Pool Karl? You idiot!
You know what I want! Speak!
Where is it!'
For another moment Nattennan's mind resisted, then he knew. As
impossible as it seemed, this murderer knew his secret. He knew about
the Spandau papers, and he had managed to beat Natterman here-to his
father's house-to steal them!
'Oh God,' Natterman whispered. 'Oh no.'
'No?' the blond man sneered.
'But I don't know what-'
'Liar!' In a rage the killer jerked his knife up and outward, severing
the old man's left nostril in a spray of blood.
Tears filled Natterman's eyes, temporarily blinding him. A warm rush of
blood flooded over his lips and chin. He coughed and gurgled,
struggling for air.
'Listen, you Jew maggot! You're nothing to me!' The killer put his
lips to Natterman's ear and lowered his voice to a deadly whisper.
'If you don't signal your agreement to cooperate in five seconds, I'm
going to' sever your carotid artery. Do you understand? That's the
pipeline to your addled brain.'
To validate his threat the killer jabbed the point of his knife into the
soft skin beneath Natterman's left ear. Choking horribly on his own
blood, Natterman tried to nod.
'You'll show me where it's hidden?'
Natterman nodded again, spitting up frothy red foam.
The killer hauled him to his feet as easily as he would a dead branch.
He took out a white handkerchief and thrust it toward the professor's
streaming wound. 'Direct pressure,' he muttered.
Natterman nodded, stanching the flow, surprised at even this small
gesture of humanity. The man before him looked scarcely thirty. The
long mane of blond hair gave him a starving-student look that the
professor knew well. A handsome face lit by zealot's eyes.
'Now,' the killer said softly, 'show it to me.'
Natterman turned back to the bed where Karl's body lay.
He began to sob as the enormity of what had happened struck him.
'For God's sake, old man, don't fall apart on me! Your friend stuck
himself into this business and wouldn't clear off. He forced me.
Come into the other room.'
Like a drone Natterman followed the killer into the front room.
With his face partially masked by the bloody handkerchief, he tried
frantically to think of a way out of his predicament. Chess, he thought
suddenly. It's just like a game of chess. But played to the death.
'Don't think, you idiot! Show me where it is! Now!'
The blond killer stood two meters from Natterman, but when he thrust the
knife forward he halved the distance with fearful effect.
Natterman dropped the blood-soaked handkerchief on the floor and began
