The same disheveled woman Mattie had seen on video embracing Chris in Private Berlin’s lobby the week before he died was now rammed into the deepest corner of the room. Ilona Frei’s hands were wrapped tightly around her head as if to protect it from a beating.
“No,” she moaned. “No, Falk. No.”
“We’re not here to hurt you, Ilona,” Mattie said softly, walking to her slowly. “We’re here to help you.”
Ilona Frei blinked through her tears and began to whimper, “No. Please. I want to stay here. I’m taking my meds. I promise you. There was someone at the hallway window. He wore a mask. I promise you. Don’t take me away again.”
“We won’t take you anywhere you don’t want to go,” Mattie soothed.
Ilona Frei panted and sweated like a wild woman, but Mattie’s tone of assurance caused her to lower her arms. She spotted Burkhart and pressed backward in fear.
In her mind, Mattie heard Frau Ledwig telling her that all of the children who arrived at Waisenhaus 44 on the night of February 12, 1980, feared men.
She looked at Burkhart. “Do me a favor? Check the hallway window and that fire escape. And then hang outside.”
Burkhart squinted, but then he nodded.
When he’d gone, Mattie turned back and said: “We’re friends of Chris Schneider’s, Ilona. We worked with him at Private Berlin.”
Something unknotted in Ilona Frei at that point and she peered at Mattie as if she were a distant light in a fog. “Christoph?”
Mattie sat on the bare floor next to her. “The man you went to see at Private Berlin a couple weeks ago. The boy you lived with at Waisenhaus 44.”
Ilona Frei wiped her tear-streaked face and choked: “Where is he? He was supposed to come see me and tell me he’d found my sister.”
Mattie sighed and said, “Chris is dead, Ilona.”
At that Ilona Frei began to hyperventilate. She began scratching at her wrists, whining, “No. No. Please tell me that’s not true.”
“I’m sorry. But it is true. He died last week.”
Ilona Frei lowered her head and began to weep. “How?”
“Chris was murdered, Ilona. I found his body in a slaughterhouse in—”
“No!” Ilona gasped before her entire body went seizure-stiff and trembling. Her lips rippled with terror as she said: “Not there. Not the slaughterhouse. Oh, God, not there.”
She tried to get up but then doubled over on her knees, and retched.
Mattie was completely upended by Ilona Frei’s reaction. But while the poor woman dry heaved and choked, Mattie got to her feet, and in the bathroom she found a threadbare towel that she wetted in the sink.
She returned to the bedroom to find Ilona Frei slumped against the wall looking like she’d been punched and kicked into dumbness.
Mattie wiped at the sweat on Ilona’s brow and daubed away the mucus lingering at the corners of her mouth, saying: “What do you know about the slaughterhouse, Ilona?”
But Ilona Frei said nothing as she stared off into space, her mouth first loose and agape and then tightening as she began to weep. “He said he’d kill us if we talked, and here he’s killed Chris and he was here to kill me.”
She hunched over and sobbed.
Mattie reached out and brought Ilona into her arms, feeling her agony pulse through her. When her crying slowed, Mattie asked again, “What do you know about the slaughterhouse, Ilona?”
At last, shuddering at the burden, Ilona Frei whispered, “I know everything about the slaughterhouse in Ahrensfelde. Everything.”
BOOK FOUR
THE MASK
CHAPTER 88
AN HOUR LATER, Mattie sat in a state of shock on a rickety chair across a small table from Ilona Frei as she wound down her terrible story.
Wrung out from the telling, Ilona Frei’s voice had gone hoarse when she said: “That was the afternoon before the men came and took us to Waisenhaus 44. It was also the last time I saw the slaughterhouse or Falk. I wanted to forget it, and forget everything that had happened there. I could not get myself to go back later and look at it. Never. And for Chris to have gone in there…and…”
She threw up her hands and fought back tears.
Mattie had been involved in police work for most of her adult life and had cynically believed she’d heard every sort of brutal tale there was to tell. But none was even remotely like the horrific story she’d just heard, and for several moments she could not utter a word. A heavy silence seized the room.
Ilona Frei studied Mattie, tears seeping past the corners of her mouth as she gripped her arms tightly. “I’ve never told anyone about the slaughterhouse. You two are the first.”
Mattie glanced at Burkhart, who stood in the doorway looking skeptical. She knew instantly what he was thinking: Ilona Frei was a schizophrenic. A narcotics addict. How much of what they’d just heard was real, and how much of it was an invention of her disturbed mind?
Burkhart had checked the fire escape and the alley, but he’d seen nothing that could corroborate Ilona Frei’s claim that a man had been outside her window, which had increased his skepticism.
But then Mattie thought of Chris’s nightmares and that haunted space he used to shield inside him. If Ilona Frei’s story was true, it was certainly a big enough trauma to create a festering wound in even the strongest of men.
“Why was this never reported to the authorities?” asked Burkhart. “Why didn’t you tell your doctors?”
“Falk said he’d kill us,” Ilona Frei said. “We believed him. I believed him. And tonight he was true to his word, wasn’t he?”
“Did Greta Amsel believe him?” Burkhart asked.
Ilona Frei pushed her hair back from her face. “Greta? Why Greta?”
“She’s dead, too, Ilona,” Mattie said sadly. “And Artur.”
Ilona Frei’s lips stretched wide and her body began to sway and contort as if something were racking her muscles. “Then Ilse’s dead too. Isn’t she?”
Mattie’s mind flashed on the image of the woman’s corpse in the subbasement of the slaughterhouse, but she did not have the heart to tell her. “We don’t know…”
“He’s killed her and he’s going to kill me,” Ilona Frei whined. “That was him at the window. Of course it was. I’m one of the last! He’s got to kill me!”
“We are not going to let that happen,” Mattie said, reaching across for her hand. “Just calm down. We talked to one of the girls who worked with your sister. She said Ilse heard him speak where she worked, is that right?”
Ilona Frei hugged herself, shivering as she nodded. “Falk has a distinctive voice. He makes these clicking noises in his throat when he’s pleased. And he likes to finish sentences with this hum that rises to a question. Hmmm?”
“But that was thirty years ago,” Burkhart said. “How could she be sure?”
Ilona Frei glared at him. “You don’t forget someone like Falk. He’s burned into your brain.”
“Was that why you came to our office? To tell Chris that Falk was alive and Ilse was missing?” Mattie asked.
“I was petrified,” Ilona explained. “Chris was the only person I could turn to, the only one I knew who would believe me and could do something about it.”
Burkhart said, “So Chris investigates, finds out it’s true, that Falk’s alive. He tracks Falk down, and follows him to the slaughterhouse.”
“And Falk kills him,” Mattie said dully, feeling the haunted space in her own heart growing with every tortured beat.
CHAPTER 89
MY FRIENDS, MY fellow Berliners, at this moment I’m sitting behind the wheel and tinted windows of my old Trabant 601 sedan.
Do you know the Trabant? The worker’s car?
No matter. My well-maintained Trabi is parked on Amsterdamer Strasse south of Ilona Frei’s apartment building. I’ve been here almost half an hour and I’m starting to shiver in my sweaty clothes.
No police, I think. That’s good. A neighbor was probably in the hallwa
y when I was on the fire escape, heard her scream, and…
I suddenly want to break something. No, I want to shatter it. No, pulverize it into dust.
My friends, Mattie Engel and Tom Burkhart just came out the front door of the apartment building, and they’re flanking Ilona Frei.
They walk away from me heading north and instantly my confidence feels like it’s suffered a thousand razor cuts.
Has she talked? Will they believe her?
No, no, I tell myself. Ilona Frei is certifiably insane. The state says so. She hears voices. She has other personalities. She’s a registered opiate freak, for God’s sake.
Even so, there’s an impulse shooting through me right now that wants to start the Trabi, haul ass down the street, and shoot them all dead, right there on the sidewalk or in that BMW they’re climbing into.
A moment later, they pull out, still heading north.
I wait a few moments, cool down, and ultimately decide not to follow them.
I think I know where they might end up eventually tonight.
I’ll go there. I’ll be invisible.
I’ll wait for my chance to strike.
CHAPTER 90
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Mattie walked up to her own apartment door. Ilona Frei shuffled along uncertainly behind her with Burkhart bringing up the rear.
As she fumbled for her keys, the odor of sautéed onions and meat came to her. So did Niklas’s voice as he chattered to Aunt C about the possibility of Hertha Berlin and Cassiano becoming champions of the second division.
“You don’t want someone like me staying with your family,” Ilona Frei said somberly. “Especially if you’ve got kids. I might…”
“You might be surprised,” Mattie said. “In any case, you’re not staying anywhere else until this is over.”
“I need my meds in the morning,” Ilona said, scratching at her arms.
“We can arrange that,” Mattie said, and she unlocked and opened her door.
Ilona Frei followed Mattie into the apartment in a slow trudge. Burkhart closed the door behind him and turned the dead bolts.
As Mattie knew she would, her aunt Cäcilia welcomed Ilona Frei like an old friend caught in a storm. “Have you eaten?” she asked.
“Smells real good,” Burkhart said, sniffing the air as Ilona shook her head.
“It was good, Tom,” Niklas announced after hugging his mother hello.
“Maultaschen with venison and onion stuffing,” Aunt C said, moving toward the kitchen. “But the noodles are already cold. I’ll fry them and you can have them with sour cream and a beer, ya?”
“Uh…ya,” Burkhart said, rubbing at his stomach.
Ilona Frei still looked lost, and Mattie was trying to figure out what she could say to set the woman at some ease when Socrates pranced into the room. Chris’s cat went straight to Ilona and rubbed against her legs.
“That’s Socrates,” Niklas said, reappraising the woman his mother had brought home to a late dinner. “He doesn’t usually like new people.”
Mattie shook her head, saying, “It’s true. He was Chris’s.”
Socrates purred loudly and contentedly until a weak but growing smile crossed Ilona Frei’s face. She bent down and picked up the cat. She sat in one of the chairs and rubbed Socrates’s belly as Niklas surged again into a high-spirited explanation of why Cassiano was such a great striker.
Niklas’s argument was directed at Burkhart, who listened attentively and in total agreement while Mattie helped her aunt fry the stuffed pasta crispy and golden.
Burkhart praised the fried Maultaschen as the best he’d ever had after eating the last one in the bowl. Ilona Frei ate only one, but she agreed with Burkhart’s assessment of the meal, which pleased Aunt Cäcilia to no end.
After clearing the plates, Burkhart said to Mattie, “If you’ll give me a blanket and a pillow, I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”
Mattie frowned. “That’s not—”
“It is necessary,” Burkhart said firmly. “She’s one of the last two.”
“Last two of what?” Niklas asked.
Ilona Frei looked upset and Socrates jumped off her lap.
“She’s one of the last two really nice ladies we know,” Mattie said quickly, irritated with Burkhart. “Now off to bed, you. I’ll be in to say good night in a minute.”
CHAPTER 91
MATTIE KEPT HER irritation in check until Aunt C had taken Ilona Frei to show her where she could sleep and she’d heard Niklas’s bedroom door shut.
She crossed her arms and faced the counterterrorism expert. “I try to shield Niklas as much as I can from what I do. I don’t want to explain all the murders to him. It will frighten him. He’s only nine.”
Burkhart’s face fell. “You mean my line about Ilona being one of the two left?”
Mattie nodded. “He’s smart, but he’s also very sensitive.”
“I apologize,” Burkhart said sincerely. “It won’t happen again.” He paused. “He’s a good kid, you know. You’re doing something very right with him.”
Mattie softened. “Thank you, Burkhart. It’s nice of you to say so.”
He hesitated. “His dad in the picture?”
She didn’t know whether she wanted to respond, but said, “No. Niklas’s father was someone inconsequential in my life, an ill-considered fling that became the miracle that is my son. He wanted no part of Niklas, and I, frankly, wanted no part of him.”
“So you raised him alone?” Burkhart said. “That’s impressive, considering.”
“Aunt C and my mother helped until she passed,” Mattie said, feeling defensive. “And considering what?”
“Well, the job of course. I know how demanding it can be.”
Mattie’s shoulders fell. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“Tell me,” Burkhart said.
She studied him, wondering whether to explain or let it lie. Something about his compassionate expression made her decision.
“I lost my position at Kripo because I refused to compromise when it came to Niklas,” Mattie said. “I won’t bore you with the details, but one night when I should have been at a murder scene, I was, instead, home with him. He was very ill: a horrible cough and fever. For that I was transferred to the press office and away from investigations. I sued the force. I lost.”
Burkhart’s eyebrows rose. “Is that what Dietrich meant when he first came on the case and said something about your reputation preceding you?”
Mattie’s cheeks reddened. “Yes, I expect so. And speaking of the Hauptkommissar, I think it’s time to tell him everything that happened today.”
Aunt C came into the living room with a blanket and pillows. “You sure you’ll be comfortable on that couch? Your legs will hang off.”
Burkhart grinned and took the bedding from her. “I’ll be fine.”
“Good night, Burkhart,” Mattie said. “And thank you for staying.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
CHAPTER 92
THE MOON WAS near full and glowed through a vent in the storm, casting Treptower Park in a pale light that threw dark shadows past the statues of the kneeling Russian soldiers.
High Commissar Dietrich sat bow-backed amid those shadows on the stone steps of the memorial. He was drinking from a bottle of vodka and staring blearily out over the graves of Stalin’s men toward the silhouette of the great Soviet warrior carrying the German child.
Dietrich was recalling how he’d come here as a boy shortly after his mother’s death from pneumonia. He’d been no more than six or seven. The colonel had brought him to these very steps.
His father had pointed across the graves toward the huge statue, saying: “Your mother is now like the heroes buried here, Hans. And you, you are like that child cradled in that soldier’s arms. Do you understand?”
Dietrich had not understood. At that moment, he had felt only confusion and loss. And yet he had nodded at the colonel for fear of disappointing him.
Sitting there in Treptower Park some forty-odd years later, the high commissar felt the same emotions whirl through him, and anger, and desperation, and…
His cell phone rang. He thought about ignoring it but then dug it from the pocket of his coat. “Dietrich.”
“High Commissar,” Mattie said. “It’s—”
“I know who this is,” Dietrich grumbled. “Weigel called me two hours ago. She informed me of the murder of Herr Jaeger and the fact that you and Herr Burkhart are wanted in Frankfurt on charges of grand theft auto and for questioning in regards to that murder.”
“It’s irrelevant. We know who the killer is, High Commissar,” Mattie said.
Dietrich’s head snapped back.
“Hermann Krüger?” he asked, feeling much drunker than he had a minute ago.
“No,” Mattie said firmly. “His name is Falk. No first name yet. He’s the son of the man who ran the slaughterhouse in Ahrensfelde. Have you been drinking again, sir?”
“I have,” Dietrich acknowledged. “I buried my father today. My last family.”
There was a silence on the phone before Mattie said, “I am sorry, sir. Should I take this information to Inspector Weigel?”
A war erupted inside the high commissar, part of him wanting to push it all Weigel’s way, but his insatiable curiosity got the better of him. “No. Tell me.”
Clouds closed in on the moon, leaving Dietrich and the war memorial in darkness save a saber of dim light that cut across the statue of the Soviet as Mattie gave him a thumbnail report on their actions in Frankfurt am Main and a rough outline of Ilona Frei’s story.
As she spoke on, bile crept up and burned the high commissar’s throat. When she finished, Dietrich felt weak, almost disjointed, almost like a marionette clipped of strings, and he hunched over his bottle.
He was silent for many moments, his drunken mind reeling, trying to think through the implications of the tale. He saw several lines of possible inquiry that he did not like. Not one bit. Despite his pride, his ethics, and his devotion to duty at Berlin Kripo, the high commissar began to think openly in a different manner, one that was more extremely self-interested.