“You have to keep it for me. If I don’t come back, look in the suitcase. There’s a false bottom under the zip where you’ll find a little money. It’s not much, but it’s all I have. Take Julian and get out of the country.”
Paul followed the landlady down the stairs. The woman was bursting with curiosity. The mysterious tenant who had spent two weeks locked in his room was now causing a commotion, receiving strange visitors and even stranger telephone calls.
“There it is, Herr Reiner,” she said to him, pointing toward the telephone halfway along the corridor. “Perhaps afterward you would all like to eat something in the kitchen. On the house.”
“Thank you, Frau Frink,” said Paul, picking up the receiver. “Paul Reiner here.”
“Good evening, Little Brother.”
When he heard who it was Paul shivered. A voice deep inside had told him that Jurgen might have something to do with Alys’s disappearance, but he had stifled his fears. Now the clock turned back fifteen years, to the night of the party, when he had stood surrounded by Jurgen’s friends, alone and defenseless. He wanted to yell, but he had to force the words out.
“Where is she, Jurgen?” he said, squeezing his hand into a fist.
“I raped her, Paul. I hurt her. I hit her very hard, several times. Now she’s somewhere she’ll never escape from ever again.”
Amid his fury and pain, Paul clung to a tiny hope: Alys was alive.
“You still there, Little Brother?”
“I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch.”
“Perhaps. The truth is, that’s the only way out for you and me, isn’t it? Our fates have both been hanging from the same thread for years, but that thread is very fine-and eventually one of us has to fall.”
“What do you want?”
“I want us to meet.”
It was a trap. It had to be a trap.
“First, I want you to let Alys go.”
“Sorry, Paul. I can’t promise you that. I want us to meet, just you and me, somewhere quiet where we can settle this once and for all, without anyone interfering.”
“Why don’t you just send your gorillas over and be done with it?”
“Don’t think that hasn’t occurred to me. But it would be too easy.”
“And what’s in it for me if I go?”
“Nothing, because I’m going to kill you. And if by any chance you’re the one left standing, Alys will die. If you die, Alys dies too. Whatever happens, she’s going to die.”
“Then you can rot in hell, you son of a bitch.”
“Now, now, not so fast. Listen to this: ‘My dear son: There isn’t a right way to begin this letter. The truth is, this is only one of several attempts I’ve made-’”
“What the hell is that, Jurgen?”
“A letter, five sheets of tracing paper. Your mother had very neat handwriting for a kitchen maid, you know that? Dreadful style, but the contents are extremely illuminating. Come and find me, and I’ll give it to you.”
Paul banged his forehead against the black dial of the telephone in frustration. He had no option but to give in.
“Little Brother… You haven’t hung up, have you?”
“No, Jurgen. I’m still here.”
“Well, then?”
“You win.”
Jurgen gave a triumphant laugh.
“You’ll see a black Mercedes parked outside your boardinghouse. Tell the driver I sent for you. He has instructions to give you the keys and tell you where I am. Come alone, no guns.”
“Okay. And, Jurgen…”
“Yes, Little Brother?”
“You might find I’m not so easy to kill.”
The line went dead. Paul ran to the door, almost knocking over his landlady. The limousine was waiting outside, completely out of place in this area. A liveried chauffeur got out as he approached.
“I’m Paul Reiner. Jurgen von Schroeder sent for me.”
The man opened the door.
“Go ahead, sir. The keys are in the ignition.”
“Where am I meant to go?”
“Herr Baron didn’t give me an actual address, sir. He said only that you should go to the place where, thanks to you, he had to start wearing an eye patch. He said you would understand.”
THE MASTER MASON
1934
Where the hero triumphs when he accepts his own death
The secret handshake of the Master Mason is the most complex of the three degrees. Commonly known as “the lion’s claw,” the thumb and little finger are used as a grip, while the other three press against the inside of the brother Mason’s wrist. Historically this was done with the body in a particular position, known as the five points of friendship-foot to foot, knee to knee, chest to chest, a hand on the other’s back and cheeks touching. This practice was abandoned in the twentieth century. The secret name of this handshake is MAHABONE, and the special way of spelling it out is by dividing it into three syllables: MA-HA-BONE.
55
The wheels squealed slightly as the car came to a stop. Paul studied the alley through the windshield. A light rain had started to fall. In the darkness it would barely have been possible to see, were it not for the yellow cone of light projected by a solitary streetlamp.
After a couple of minutes Paul finally emerged from the car. It had been fourteen years since he’d set foot in that alley by the bank of the Isar. It smelled as bad as ever, of wet peat, rotting fish, and damp. At this time of night the only sound was that of his own footsteps echoing on the pavement.
He reached the stable door. It seemed nothing had changed. The peeling dark green stains that spattered the wood were perhaps a little larger than in the days when Paul used to cross the threshold each morning. The hinges still gave the same high-pitched screech as they opened, and the door still got stuck halfway and required a shove to open it completely.
Paul went in. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling. The stalls, the earth floor, and the coal man’s cart…
… and on it, Jurgen, with a pistol in his hand.
“Hello, Little Brother. Close the door and put your hands up.”
Jurgen was wearing only the black trousers and boots of his uniform. From the waist up he was naked, apart from his eye patch.
“We said no firearms,” Paul replied, raising his arms cautiously.
“Lift up your shirt,” said Jurgen, gesturing with the gun while Paul obeyed his orders. “Slowly. That’s it-very good. Now turn around. Good. Looks like you’ve played by the rules, Paul. So I shall play by them too.”
He removed the magazine from the gun and set it on the wood that separated the horses’ stalls. It must have had a bullet left in the chamber, however, and the barrel was still pointing at Paul.
“Is this place as you remember it? I do hope so. Your friend the coal man’s business went bust five years ago, so I was able to get my hands on these stables for a pittance. I hoped you’d come back one day.”
