‘You bastard!’ he yelled, seeing Köhner at the far end of the room standing by the long table. He tried to stagger to his feet, but it was too soon and he fell to the floor again.
‘Ah, Steadman. So glad you are awake again.’ Köhner walked towards him, hands behind his back, a pleasant smile on his face. The man who had been dragging Goldblatt’s bloodied body along the floor continued his journey after a curious glance at Steadman. When he reached a far corner of the room, he bundled the body up and pushed it as close to the wall as possible until it was just a black shape in the shadows. Köhner stopped just before Steadman and the investigator stared at the immaculately polished shoes, their highlights hued red in the glow from the fire. The room was no longer so cold, but now Steadman shivered with the rage building up inside him. What kind of man would kill as coldbloodedly as this one had?
‘We are just a small group now, Steadman. You and me, Craven—’ he indicated towards the small man who was now wiping blood from his hands with a handkerchief ‘—and a few guards. The others have all gone to the Wewelsburg. A big day tomorrow, you know. Many preparations to make.’ A shoe playfully tapped Steadman in the ribs. ‘So, for tonight, you’re all mine.’ Still smiling, Köhner raised his foot to Steadman’s shoulder and pushed him down on to his back again. Then he walked away.
Questions crowded the detective’s mind. What was the ‘Wewelsburg’ and why had Gant and the others gone there? What was going to happen tomorrow? Was Gant completely mad, with all his talk of Hitler and this spear? If he was, it was a dangerous madness. But just how dangerous? Were they just a small group of fanatics or were they widespread? Pope had said Gant had influential friends, powerful men. My God – the man he’d seen drive away in the BMW that afternoon, the MP. Was he one of them? And Holly. Why had they taken her? Did they really believe she was a Mossad agent? What would they do to her? Why had they left him with this murderer, Köhner?’
His mind stopped churning when he saw his captor standing behind Hannah, his hands resting on her shoulders, fingers kneading the flesh. She was still tied to the chair, but she was conscious. Her eyes were staring at the bundle lying in the corner.
‘Come along now, Steadman,’ Köhner said, the smile, so pleasant, so sinister, still on his face. ‘Come and join us here.’ He picked up the empty chair next to Hannah, the chair which had been occupied by Goldblatt, and moved it to a position facing her, a little distance away. ‘Bring him over, Craven.’
The small man ran forward, drawing a gun from inside his jacket. Without a word, he grabbed Steadman just above the elbow and yanked him to his feet. With a hard push, he sent the investigator staggering down the room towards the empty chair. Steadman stumbled and fell, but a prod in his back from Craven’s gun encouraged him to rise again. He stood in front of the chair, swaying slightly and was roughly pulled down into it. He looked across at Hannah and there was sadness in her eyes. Regret.
‘I’m so sorry . . .’ she began to say, but Köhner lashed out with his hand, stopping her words abruptly.
‘Shut up, you Jew bitch! You’ll talk, but you’ll talk to me – not him!’
‘Let her be, Köhner,’ Steadman said wearily. ‘She’s only a woman, she . . .’
Köhner’s hand lashed out and again it was the woman he struck. She cried out this time and the regret in her eyes was replaced by fear.
Köhner smiled sweetly at Steadman. ‘You see, she is the one to be hurt, not you. You are going to tell me what we need to know because if you don’t, it will be the woman who will suffer.’ He pulled Hannah’s jacket apart, then ripped open her blouse. ‘It’s incredible how sensitive certain areas of the body are, you know, the erogenous zones, in particular. Ironic, isn’t it, how parts that can give so much pleasure can also give so much pain.’ He reached inside his jacket and once again withdrew the wicked-looking blade from a sheaf worn like a shoulder holster. Steadman saw the knife was double-edged and still bore the bloodstains of its previous victim. He prepared to launch himself forward as the blade descended towards Hannah’s exposed stomach, but Köhner glanced towards him and hesitated.
‘Better tie him, I think, Craven,’ he said. ‘This may be too much for the poor man.’
The cold metal of the gun barrel was placed against Steadman’s temple and Craven’s rough hand grabbed his shirt and jacket collar, sharp fingernails raking the back of his neck. ‘Don’t worry, sir, he won’t move while I’ve got him like this.’
Satisfied, Köhner knelt before Hannah and once again directed the knife towards her bare flesh. His other hand reached for the waistband of her skirt and tugged at the material, inserting the blade into the gap, then ripping, tearing the skirt down its middle until the two sides flapped open and hung loosely by her sides. He repeated the process with her panties and tights, then snipped open her bra as he rose again. Now her body was completely exposed to him.
Steadman averted his eyes, feeling her shame, wanting to strike out, but forcing himself to wait for the right moment.
There were tears in Hannah’s eyes and she closed them so she would not have to see the three faces before her. Their cause was lost now: David had been murdered and Baruch was probably dead too. Steadman would be killed even though he was an innocent in the whole affair. But they’d had no choice; they’d had to use him.
Köhner left them and walked to the end of the room towards the table. He picked up something and as he returned, Steadman was puzzled at the object’s familiar appearance. ‘A simple hairdryer, Steadman. It doesn’t take sophisticated instruments to hurt someone – anything handy will do. This is one of my specialities, actually.’ He plugged it into a socket by the door, unwinding the long lead as he rose. Köhner flicked the switch with a thumb and the machine whirred into life. He switched it off again, satisfied, and took up a position behind Hannah.
He grabbed her under the chin and held her head against his body in a vice-like grip. ‘The ears, first, I think. It’ll do terrible damage to her eardrums. Bad enough when it’s cold air, but when it really warms up . . .’
‘There’s nothing to tell, Köhner. For God’s sake! They hired me to find their missing agent and that was it! That’s all I can tell you!’ Steadman’s hands gripped the sides of the chair, his knuckles white. The hold on his collar tightened.
‘Oh, come now,’ Köhner said, shaking his head. The dryer was switched on again and air was sucked into its fan and thrown out in a quickly heated stream. ‘You can’t expect me to believe that, Steadman. You’re much more involved. Mr Gant expects quick answers, that’s why he left you to me. Pity he was too busy to watch: I think he’d have enjoyed my skill. He has in the past.’ He tested the heat by blowing air against his own cheek. ‘Ah, yes. Nicely warming up. It’s of the more powerful variety, of course – the type used by hairdressers – so it gets a little hotter than usual. Although that isn’t really necessary. An ordinary hairdryer is just as good – it takes a little longer, that’s all. Let me see, the breasts after the ears. No, perhaps not. I think she’ll be too far gone by that time to feel anything there. Maybe the eyes. Yes, the eyes will be good, even with the lids closed.’
‘Köhner!’
‘And finally, the vagina. That will kill her, of course, Steadman.’ The whining machine was pushed against Hannah’s ear and she tried to struggle away from it. She screamed as the hot air blasted its way down her ear canal and reached the eardrum.
‘Please, stop! I’ll tell you everything I know!’ Steadman pleaded.
Köhner looked disappointed. He took the dryer away from Hannah’s ear but left the motor running. She moaned and tried to twist her head from his grasp, but he was too strong for her. ‘Well?’ he said.
‘It’s true what I said about being hired by Mossad to find Baruch Kanaan. I did belong to Israeli Intelligence, but that was years ago. I’d left them.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘I – I was sick of the bloodshed. The Arabs killed someone . . . someone close t
o me. I went on the rampage after, killing, killing – until I was sick of it!’
‘How traumatic.’
‘It’s true, fuck you! I’d had too much of it! Too much killing. Too much revenge.’
‘And you left them.’
‘Yes. I wanted nothing to do with them any more. But they had someone watching me all the time, an old man who’d lived in this country since the war.’
‘The jeweller.’
‘Yes.’ Steadman stared at Köhner. ‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘It doesn’t matter how I know. The old man’s dead now – he didn’t survive his visit to you last night.’ Then he added with a grin, ‘Something frightened him to death.’
There was so much happening that Steadman didn’t understand. He shook his head and went on: ‘They came to me a couple of weeks ago, Goldblatt and this woman, Hannah. I refused to help them find their missing agent, but my partner agreed to without my knowing.’
‘Yes, Mrs Wyeth. I had an interesting chat with her. Unfortunately – for her – she couldn’t really tell me much. Mr Gant was right: she really didn’t know anything.’
‘You . . . you were the one . . .’
‘Keep talking, Steadman. No questions, just answers, please.’
Craven made the gun’s presence known even more strongly when he felt the investigator tense again. Steadman was nearing breaking point he told himself. Perhaps they should have tied him after all. Pity he was talking so soon, though; he’d have liked to have seen the woman squirm more. She had a beautifully ripe body, the cut clothes accentuating its sensuality; it would be good to see it writhe, see those smooth thighs open wider with agony. Pity to kill her. Maybe Köhner would let him use her first. If he didn’t . . . well, he would be the one who had to dispose of the body. Plenty of time then . . .
The dryer was moving towards Hannah’s head again and Steadman quickly resumed talking. ‘After Mag . . . my partner . . . was killed, a man named Pope came to see me. He was from British Intelligence and knew Mossad were operating here. He’s also investigating Edward Gant.’
Hannah stopped twisting her head and stared across at the investigator, her eyes wide. ‘Steadman, don’t . . .’
Köhner clamped his hand over her mouth and snarled, ‘Don’t interrupt, you Jew whore. It’s getting very interesting. Go on, Steadman.’
Köhner suddenly yelped in pain as Hannah bit deep into his hand, her teeth drawing blood. He dropped the dryer and reached for the knife again, all in one reaction.
Steadman screamed ‘No!’ as the blade plunged deep into the flesh of Hannah’s stomach, and Craven, whose eyes had been watching the exposed parts of her body, froze at the suddenness of it all. The knife, still embedded, was travelling upwards in a straight line towards her chin when Steadman grabbed the gun-barrel and pushed it aside.
The investigator was on his feet, the hand at his neck having no effect on his enraged strength, the chair crashing over behind him. He still held on to the gun and realized the little man hadn’t even released the safety-clip. Twisting his body, he brought his leg up and Craven was lifted off his feet, his scream piercing the air.
Steadman whirled, forgetting about the injured man for the moment, knowing his agony would keep him out of action for a while. He flew at Köhner, hands outstretched, grabbing for the knife that was now raised against him, its blade red with blood. He was lucky enough to find the knuckles clasped around the knife’s handle and he pushed the weapon away as both men went over, dragging the chair holding Hannah with them. They went down in a heap, Steadman pushing the knife-hand to the floor, while Köhner kicked and struggled beneath him, grabbing at the investigator’s hair and trying to pull his head back. Hannah, still tied securely to the chair, rolled on to her side, the blood flowing from the long rent stretching from her lower stomach to her breast-bone, creating a dark viscous puddle on the wood floor.
As Köhner pulled at his assailant’s hair, he managed to bring a knee up and bring it hard against Steadman’s hip, the blow sending the investigator to one side, Köhner rolling with him. The knife came up from the floor and he almost managed to wrench himself from the investigator’s grip. But Steadman knew if the knife-hand got free again, Köhner had the speed and experience to kill him easily. Both men were on their sides and Köhner used his strength to carry his body through with the roll so that he gained the advantage of having Steadman beneath him. He let go of the investigator’s hair to add strength to the hand pressing the knife towards Steadman. The pointed tip pushed against Steadman’s cheek, pressing the skin inward until the flesh broke and a trickle of blood emerged. Steadman had both his hands around Köhner’s and he tried to hold the straining blade away, but he felt it slowly sinking into his cheek, millimetre by millimetre, eager to burst through into the cavern of his mouth. Köhner’s eyes were above him, staring down, a gleam of triumph and blood-lust in them. He felt no pain; only the relentless force of the cold metal.
He slowly turned his head, feeling the skin tear as the steel blade sliced a shallow red-lined path across his cheek.
He used his whole body to try and squirm away from Köhner and felt his opponent moving with him, endeavouring to keep him pinned. The knife edge was grating against bone now and he knew his head would move no further; metal and bone were locked together. With a roar he changed his direction and heaved upwards, using all his strength against the other man’s weight. Köhner resisted but the movement was too sudden; he was forced backwards. When he knew he had reached the point of overbalance and the knife had been pushed clear of Steadman’s cheek, he allowed himself to be carried with the momentum, skilfully using his weight and strength to his own advantage. His intention was to continue the roll, using pressure only when the movement would put him on top again. But Steadman still retained enough cunning in hand-to-hand combat to break away at the right moment. He hadn’t wanted to release the hands holding the knife, but he had guessed Köhner’s reason for withdrawing the pressure. He twisted away from his surprised antagonist and kept rolling, knowing the weapon would be following, striking towards his exposed back.
He felt rather than heard it thud into the floor behind, and swiftly rose to a crouching position while the knife was tugged free. He turned to face his antagonist, hands held poised before him.
Köhner had also risen and both men were silent as they watched one another, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Steadman stared into Köhner’s eyes, the blade still in the periphery of his vision but not in focus, the eyes would tell him what the man would do. He could hear Craven groaning and writhing on the floor to his left and he knew he would have to move fast if he were to avoid having two opponents again: Köhner was enough on his own. Köhner’s eyes widened slightly before he lunged, but it was enough to give the investigator warning. He threw himself to one side, ducking low, and the blade went on past his shoulder. Their bodies made contact and Köhner staggered, spinning round, but managing to control his movements so that he was balanced and ready to lunge again. Steadman wasn’t there though; he was racing towards the black object lying in the centre of the room. Köhner followed, confident that the knife would be deeply embedded in the investigator’s back before he had time to use the gun.
Steadman realized the same. He stooped and reached for the back of the overturned chair he’d been held captive in only minutes before and, hearing the footsteps behind, he swung his body round, bringing the chair up as he did so. It crashed against Köhner’s shoulder causing him to stumble to one side, and before he could recover fully, the chair was on its return journey, this time aimed at his head. He ducked instinctively and Steadman was momentarily thrown off balance. He recovered quickly enough to swing the chair up again, this time as a shield against Köhner’s oncoming rush. It struck Köhner’s body and Steadman pushed, the knife waving in the air in a vain attempt to reach him. Steadman exerted all his force and kept pushing, moving the other man backwards. Köhner resisted, hopelessly caught up betwee
n the legs of the chair, unable to thrust it aside. He took the only course available: he dropped to the floor pulling the chair with him but lifting it so it sailed over his head. It still left him at a disadvantage, for he was flat on his back, and he struck out at Steadman’s legs with the knife as he lay there.
The investigator drew in his breath as the knife’s razor-sharp edge slid along his shin-bone, only its angle preventing it from cutting deeply. He tried to leap clear of the thrashing blade as he staggered over Köhner’s recumbent figure and fell heavily against the chair which had crashed into the floor just beyond the fallen man’s head.
Steadman found himself lying on his stomach, the chair leaning against him and, for the briefest second, he looked into the face of Hannah still trapped in her chair in the centre of the big room. Her eyes were pleading and her lips moved as her life oozed from her. She was looking directly at him. He staggered to his feet, bringing the chair up so it cracked against the advancing Köhner’s chin, sending the German reeling back. Köhner raised a hand, reaching for his eyes as if to wipe the dizziness from them. Steadman was on him, relishing his sudden advantage, reaching for the arm clutching the weapon with both hands and bringing it down sharply against his rising knee in an effort to break it. He didn’t succeed, but at least the knife flew from Köhner’s grasp, clattering uselessly against the bare floorboards.