People are good, she used to tell herself. They treat us as we treat them.
There was a mirror hanging over the little sink in the kitchen alcove, and when she had finished unpacking her bags she stood in front of it for a couple of minutes and contemplated her new face.
She had not changed much, but the effect was astounding. With her hair cut short and dyed brown, with no makeup and wearing round, metal-framed spectacles, she suddenly looked like a librarian or a bored handicrafts teacher. Nobody would have recognized her, and just for a moment-as she stood there making faces and trying out angles-she had the distinct feeling that she was somebody else.
New features and a new name. A new town and a mission that only six months ago would have seemed to her like the ravings of a lunatic, or a bad joke.
But here she was. She tried one more time-the last one?-to see if she could find any trace of doubt or uncertainty, but no matter how deep the soundings she made into her soul, all she came up against was solid rock. Solid and unyielding ground, and it was clear to her that it was time to begin.
Begin in earnest. Her list was complete in every respect, and even if three months can be quite a long period, there was no reason to mark time in the early stages. On the contrary: every name required its own meticulous planning, its own specific treatment, and it was better to make full use of the early days and avoid being under stress toward the end. Once she had started on her mission, and people had caught on to what was happening, she would naturally need to be on the alert for problems. Everybody would be on the lookout-the general public, the police, her opponents.
That was the way it had to be. It was all dictated by the circumstances.
But she was already convinced that she would not have any worries. No insurmountable ones, at least, and as she lay on her bed that first night and examined her gun, she could feel that the scale of the challenge would doubtless make the allure that little bit stronger.
That little bit more exciting and more enjoyable.
I'm crazy, she thought. Completely and utterly mad.
But it was a daring and irresistible madness. And who could blame her, after all?
She looked at the list of names again. Studied them one by one. She had already decided who would be first, but even so, she pretended to reconsider it one more time.
Then she breathed a sigh of satisfaction and drew two thick red lines around his name. Lit a cigarette and started to think through how she would go about it.
II
January 18-19
4
It was not a part of Ryszard Malik's normal routine to drink two large whiskeys before dinner, but he had a good reason to do so today.
Two reasons, in fact. The contract he had long been negotiating with Winklers had collapsed, despite two hours of intensive telephone discussions during the afternoon, and when he finally left the office he discovered that a sudden cold snap had transformed the streets, soaking wet after all the rain, into an ice rink. If it had been exclusively up to him, there would, of course, have been no problem-not for nothing did he have thirty years of blameless driving behind him, and he had often driven on slippery roads. But he wasn't the only one out. The rush-hour traffic from the center of town to the residential districts and garden suburbs was still in evidence. It happened just before the roundabout in Hagmaar Alle: a white, Swiss-registered Mercedes going much too fast slid into the back of his Renault. He swore under his breath, unfastened his safety belt, and got out of the car to survey the damage and argue about what to do next. Right taillight smashed, rather a large dent in the fender, and two deep scratches in the paintwork. Various unlikely excuses, some forced politeness, an exchange of business cards and insurance-company details-it all took a considerable time, and it was over forty minutes later when he was able to continue his journey home.
Malik didn't like coming home late. Admittedly his wife rarely had dinner ready before seven, but an hour, preferably an hour and a half, with the newspaper and a whiskey and water in his study was something he was reluctant to miss.
Over the years it had become a habit, and a necessary one at that. A sort of buffer between work and a wife growing increasingly conscious of her importance.
Today there was time for only a quarter of an hour. And it was to go some way toward compensating for the loss-of both the precious minutes and his taillight-that he skipped the newspaper and devoted all his attention to the whiskey instead.
Well, not quite all. There were those telephone calls as well. What the devil was it all about? “The Rise and Fall of Flingel Bunt.” What the hell was the point of phoning somebody and then playing an old sixties hit? Over and over again.
Or once a day, at any rate. Ilse had answered twice, and he had taken one of the calls. It had started the day before yesterday. He hadn't mentioned to her that whoever it was had called again yesterday evening… No need to worry her unnecessarily. No need to tell her that he recognized the tune, either.
Quite early in the sixties, if he remembered rightly. The Shadows. 'Sixty-four or 'sixty-five, presumably. Irrelevant anyway: the question was what the hell it signified, if it signified anything at all. And who was behind it? Perhaps it was just a loony. Some out-of-work screwball who had nothing better to do than to phone decent citizens and stir up a bit of trouble.
It was probably no more than that. Obviously, one could consider bringing in the police if it continued, but so far at least it was no more than a minor irritation. Which was bad enough on a day like today.
A pain in the ass, as Wolff would have put it. A scratch in the paintwork or a shattered taillight.
There came his wife's call. The food was on the table, it seemed. He sighed. Downed the rest of the whiskey and left his study.
“It's nothing to get worked up about.”
“I'm not getting worked up.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“You always think I'm getting worked up. That's typical of the way you regard women.”
“All right. Let's talk about something else. This sauce is not bad at all. What have you put in it?”
“A drop of Madeira. You've had it fifty times before. I listened for longer today.”
“Really?”
“A minute, at least. There was nothing else.”
“What else did you expect there to be?”
“What else did I expect there to be? A voice, of course. Most people who make a phone call have something to say.”
“I expect there's a natural explanation.”
“Oh yes? What, for example? Why ring somebody and just play a piece of music?”
Malik took a large sip of wine and thought that one over.
“Well,” he said. “A new radio station, or something of the sort.”
“That's the silliest thing I've ever heard.”
He sighed.
“Are you sure it was the same song both times?”
She hesitated. Stroked her brow with her index finger, the way she did when a migraine attack was in the offing.
