Four weeks later
The needle of the speedometer seemed to be nailed down at one hundred and forty kilometres per hour. You might have thought that Kramer had switched on the cruise control, but Martin knew that the head of the operations regarded such aids as ‘pensioners’ accessories’. He bet that in the 1980s Kramer would have sneered at power steering and automatic transmission too, and if the man had ever been on a demonstration, then it would have been to protest against the compulsory wearing of seatbelts.
‘How about a coffee?’ Martin asked when the sign for Michendorf service station appeared. They were driving in the vehicle he’d last sat in outside the Pryga villa in Westend, and where he’d pulled out one of his own teeth. In fact a visit to the dentist was long overdue; the sweet lady from casualty had even left him a concerned message on his answerphone telling him he mustn’t forget to have the interim denture replaced. But he had time. He could cope with the throbbing in his jaw and could sleep well with three ibuprofen, occasionally even four hours at a time. The painkillers also helped with his headache. In addition, the attacks he’d had on the ship had become less frequent ever since he’d prematurely ditched the PEP pills.
‘No coffee. We’re late,’ Kramer decided, even though there were three hours till their meeting at the motorway car park just outside of Jena.
Martin yawned and turned his wrist outwards so he could see his arteries. And the tattoo. A rose with eighteen tiny thorns. A Russian prison tattoo. The sign that you’d reached the age of maturity in jail. He’d had it inked ten days ago for this operation. Their goal was to infiltrate a Croatian biker gang that was seeking to take over the Berlin bouncer business. The people who controlled the doors to clubs and discos also controlled the flow of drugs. A lucrative business that was bitterly contested. In the coming weeks the Croatian gang was planning on eliminating a few bouncers and Martin was going to offer his services as a contract killer.
‘Doesn’t the tattoo look too new?’ Kramer asked, returning his gaze to the almost-empty road after a glance at the rose.
‘I’ll say I had it freshened up in celebration of this day,’ Martin replied. He yawned again. Yesterday hadn’t been a four-hour night. More like four minutes.
They passed the service station and thus the chance of a coffee. Martin shut his eyes and leaned his head against the vibrating window.
‘Hey! Walivakelive ulivup yolivoulivu ilividiliviolivot!’ he suddenly heard Kramer say beside him. Turning to him, he saw his boss giggling into his double chin. Martin, who couldn’t make head or tail of this nonsense, asked Kramer if he was having a stroke. ‘If so, you’d better let me drive.’
‘Rubbish, I’m fine. That’s how my daughter talks at the moment.’ The head of operations was wearing the smile of a proud father. ‘Helivellolivo, for example, means hello.’
He indicated to overtake a white rust bucket that was hogging the middle lane.
‘It’s called Livish,’ he explained as if Martin might be interested in the silly secret language that Kramer’s daughter had concocted.
‘Lottie’s practised it with her friend throughout the entire autumn holiday and now she’s driving her teachers potty too. The principle is very simple. Shall I tell you how it works?’
Martin shook his head, but this didn’t spare him Kramer’s explanation.
‘You put liv after every vowel, then repeat the vowel afterwards. Walivakelive ulivup yolivoulivu ilividiliviolivot means wake up you idiot.’ Kramer slapped the steering wheel, as if he’d just told the joke of the year.
‘I understand,’ Martin said, before adding ‘alivarseliveholivolelive’. Kramer stopped laughing and looked straight ahead sulkily.
Martin’s mobile rang. Although the number wasn’t one of his contacts, it seemed familiar, so he took the call.
‘Martin?’ Gerlinde Dobkowitz began the conversation with reproach in her voice. ‘What sort of a way to behave is that? I mean, I can understand that you didn’t propose to me, even though I’m still quite a catch, but to skip offboard without so much as a goodbye, and then not even a call afterwards to say you’re back on dry land, well, that’s pretty steep!’
He was going to tell her that he was deliberately avoiding contact with anyone who reminded him of the Sultan, and thus of Timmy but, as ever, she didn’t let him get a word in edgeways.
‘Anyway, I was just giving you a bell to say that I’ve finished my novel. You know, Cruise Killer.’
‘Lovely title,’ Martin said, seeking a polite way to end the conversation.
‘Isn’t it just?’ she agreed perkily. ‘Although I thought The Bermuda Deck was even better.’ But it appears that my second theory about the secret deck and experiments on people hasn’t proved correct, although I haven’t altogether given up the hunt for a secret way in. Anyway, a female serial killer in the ship’s basement isn’t to be sneezed at, is it?’
‘You had a nose for it, Frau Dobkowitz, but—’
‘I’ll send you a copy if you like. Or I’ll give it to you in person. I’m coming to Berlin next month.’
‘You’re leaving the ship?’ This was a surprise to Martin.
‘Of course, what do you think? As soon as my bestseller came out, they’d have kicked me off the boat anyway as a traitor. Besides, I’ve had enough of being here now. My need for death and violence has been sated. If I don’t watch out I might vanish too in all the excitement. At seventy-eight plus five you’ve got to take things a bit more easily.’
‘Seventy-eight plus five?’ Martin asked, blinking nervously. He froze. Gerlinde giggled to herself.
‘At my age you don’t just count the years, but the months too. And even the days, if possible, when the final checkout is looming. I mean, I wouldn’t say the worms are already licking their lips when I wheel myself across the meadow, but—’
Martin muttered a goodbye and hung up before Gerlinde could finish her sentence.
‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ Kramer asked, peering at him from the corner of his eye. ‘Is everything alright?’
No, it’s not.
Martin could sense that his mouth was hanging open, but there were more important things to do than close it again.
Gerlinde’s comment about her age had unsettled him. The black van was holding its lane, but in his head a thought had derailed, which he desperately wanted to grab hold of again. Needed to grab hold of.
What had Diesel said about Anouk?
‘The result of her IQ test she took in year 5 was 135… And she came second in a national memory championship.’
Seventy-eight plus five.
Helivellolivo!
‘Stop!’ he screamed at Kramer, who’d just moved into the slow lane. ‘Let me out!’
‘Here?’
‘Right now!’ Martin opened the sliding door on the passenger side. An icy wind flew inside. He heard Kramer curse, but the van slowed down, veered right and finally came to a halt on the hard shoulder.
‘You’re wrecking the operation,’ Kramer yelled after him, as Martin had already jumped out. ‘If you bugger off again without permission, that will be that, you psycho.’
Martin briefly glanced back and nodded.
He ran over to the other side of the motorway to find someone who’d get him back to Berlin as quickly as possible…
78+5
… so he could search through the memory on his phone in peace, where somewhere the truth was hiding…