But this morning, Shafer had called Wells, told him he needed to get hold of Bernard. Immediately. Bernard wasn’t answering his phone. So Wells had come to the house.
“
“Where is he then?”
But the house stayed silent. Wells waited a minute more, then dropped to a crouch and scuttled along the front porch. He vaulted over the rail of the porch and ran into the backyard, which was hidden from the neighbors by a high white wall. Most of the yard was taken up by a little garden, the plants wrapped in blue plastic to protect them from the winter. Three recycling bins stood tidily beside the back door of the house, which opened into the kitchen. The savory smell of Turkish coffee wafted into the yard through a half-open kitchen window.
For this visit, Wells had brought his Glock. He unzipped his jacket and started to pull the pistol from his shoulder holster. Then he changed his mind. He left the gun in the holster and stepped to the door and peeked inside. The kitchen was empty. Wells tested the door. Locked. He pushed on the window but couldn’t raise it.
Wells was wearing a black wool knit cap low on his head. He pulled off the cap and wrapped his gloved hand in it and punched through the window beside the door. The glass cracked with the sweet tinkle of a distant ice- cream truck. Wells reached in and opened the door and stepped inside. “Bernard,” he yelled. “It’s Roland.” Heavy steps thumped through the house toward the kitchen. Wells pulled his pistol. Helmut, Bernard’s son, skidded into the kitchen on black dress socks. He held a poker in both hands. He stepped toward Wells but stopped when he saw the Glock.
“Put it down,” Wells said.
“We’re calling the police.”
“No you’re not. Put it down, boy.”
Helmut laid the poker on the kitchen table.
“Good.” Wells tucked away his gun and stepped toward Helmut.
“Where’s your father?”
“At the warehouse.”
Wells lunged and grabbed the poker as Helmut shrank back against the refrigerator.
“I was just there. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I swear.”
“Bloody hell. Do you have any idea what he’s gotten us into?”
Wells pressed Helmut against the refrigerator and put his gloved left hand around Helmut’s neck and lifted and squeezed—
To his right, Wells sensed as much as saw a shape coming at him through the doorway—
Still holding Helmut, he swung the poker diagonally downward, a quick blind slash that ended when the iron rod thumped solidly into bone—
A woman screamed and a knife clattered to the floor and Helmut swung his skinny arms wildly at Wells like a puppet trying to slip its strings—
But Wells kept his grip until Helmut’s shoulders drooped and he gave up—
Wells loosened up on Helmut and kicked the knife to the far end of the kitchen. Meanwhile, Bernard’s wife, his would-be attacker, held her damaged hand to her chest and groaned. Wells wasn’t sure if he’d broken any bones, but she’d be black-and-blue for sure. He jabbed at her with the poker to keep her at bay.
“Tell your mother to step back,” Wells said. “Before I start shooting.”
Helmut fired German at his mother. Wells was surprised that they didn’t speak Arabic or Turkish with each other, but maybe Helmut had never learned it. Finally, the woman retreated. Wells stepped back to the far end of the kitchen and dropped the poker and drew his Glock.
“Crazy family,” he said. “Helmut the screenwriter, his killer mom, his disappearing dad. What’s her name, anyway?”
“Ayelet.”
“Tell Omelet I need her husband.”
“Ayelet.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass. You two talkee-fastee and find me Bernard or we’re all in trouble.”
But after talking to his mother, Helmut shook his head. “She doesn’t know. And I don’t either.”
“Lying.”
“No. He left yesterday morning and he hasn’t been home since.”
Did the BND know where Bernard was? Wells wondered. They had to. Then why hadn’t they told Shafer? Or had the Germans somehow lost him? “Let’s go,” Wells said. “I want a look around.”
“I don’t understand,” Helmut said. “Are you
“Do I look like the constabulary? Your father owes me three million euros. I want my money and I don’t want to wind up in some Kraut jail.” Wells walked through the living room to Bernard’s office. The door was locked, but Wells put his shoulder to it and popped it.
Inside, the file cabinets were empty and the papers on Bernard’s desk were gone. So was his laptop dock. Only the maps and the volumes of maritime law remained.
“Bloody hell,” Wells said, not acting anymore.
“No.”
Ayelet murmured something to Helmut. “She says he burned his papers.” Wells walked back into the living room. Heaps of charred ash filled the fireplace. Wells kicked through them but found nothing of value. Then, deeper in the fireplace, a lump of melted plastic. Bernard’s laptop, permanently rebooted. Bernard had taken advantage of the cold weather to get rid of his records without attracting the BND’s attention.
“When did he do this?”
“Last night.”
Wells backhanded Helmut across the face, hard enough that the kid nearly banged his head on the marble fireplace mantel. “You told me he left yesterday morning.”
“He came back last night to burn the stuff. Just for an hour.”
Wells pulled Helmut close, got a faceful of the kid’s cologne. “Who else was in on this?”
“I don’t even know what you’re doing here. You think my father talks to me?” Helmut’s voice was a piteous but truthful whine.
“You don’t know what we’re doing? I’ll tell you, then. Your dear old da’ asked me to find him some beryllium. Know what that’s for, Helmut? Atomic bombs. Try that in one of your movies. Your dad wants an A-bomb.”
“That’s—” But Helmut had nothing else to say.
“You ever seen anyone from the BND with your dad?” Wells said. “Think hard.”
Helmut shook his head.
“Then who’s it for, Helmut?”
Helmut hesitated. His eyes flicked at his mother, at the floor, and then finally back at Wells. “I don’t know.” He knew something, maybe not a name, but something. Even so, Wells decided to hold off on pushing the question. Finding Bernard was the key. Wells grabbed Helmut and pulled him close and stuck the Glock under his chin. Helmut’s cologne could no longer hide the reek of his sweat. Wells didn’t like scaring civilians this way, but he didn’t see any choice.
“Your dad and me, we had a deal. And I intend to get paid. And if he goes down, he had best keep his mouth shut and never mention me to anyone. Otherwise I will kill you and your ugly twit of a mother and your sisters. So find Bernard and tell him I want to see him in person. Do you understand?”
“You have a foul mouth,” Helmut said through clenched teeth.
“And an even fouler mind at that. But I keep my promises. Tell him.”
And with his message delivered, Wells flung Helmut aside and stalked out.
AN HOUR LATER, from his hotel room, Wells called Shafer. “Bernard is AWOL.” Wells told Shafer about the empty office and his run-in with Helmut.
“That’s a problem,” Shafer said.
“Why did he run?”
Shafer told Wells about the
