Chapter Eleven

The tactical knife is in his right cargo pocket. Its razor-sharp blade was last used to kill the pig American, Sanderson.

He squealed like a pregnant sow.

Huber is hyped on Fenethylline, his drug of choice going into action. He has to take deep breaths to slow his heart rate as the elevator climbs to the tenth floor.

Such a trusting dolt at the front desk, he thinks. Huber called from a pay phone, pretending to be from a flower shop with a delivery for one Jake Jacobs staying at the Intercontinental. Delicate flowers and the delivery is urgent. Guy coughed up the room number without a fight.

Too simple. Didn’t even get a chance to flash the send-you-to-hell look the drug imparts, he thinks, getting out of the elevator on the tenth floor. More deep breaths as he searches for room 1032. Goes up and down the hallway a couple of times and then discovers he missed it on the first pass.

Never mind. He’s got his hand ready to knock when the elevator doors open again in back of him. He shuffles away from the door, acting as if he is looking for his room, just as Jake Jacobs leaves the elevator, followed by a bellhop in his stupid burgundy monkey suit, pushing a cart laden with food and drinks. Daniel Huber knows the face, has studied it well. The main target. Something like a sexual rush catches him, speeds his heart again.

Both Jacobs and bellhop head for 1032.

Backup plan, Huber tells himself, as he now moves toward the elevator. Tries for a smile, gets the look of death off his face. He passes by Jacobs, eyes front. As he passes the bellhop and cart, he stumbles, righting himself with a hand to the side of the cart.

“Tschuldige,” he says. Sorry.

The bellhop gives him an evil look, as if he is a piece of dog shit he would like to flick off his shoe.

But the video is slid effortlessly under a napkin.

Invisible, he thinks, punching the down button at the elevator.

On my turf next time, he tells himself.

Vosenko is catching the evening news on television. Casts a diffident smile as Jake enters, followed by the bellhop and cart.

“Hey,” Jake says. “Thought we might have a little celebration.” He waves a hand at the tray.

“What are we celebrating?” Vosenko clicks off the television.

“My release, of course.” And my afternoon at Bibergasse. An image of Tania naked beneath him, her mouth wide, nostrils flaring, and eyes closed as she orgasms. But Vosenko doesn’t need to know about that.

A shrug from the Lithuanian. “We are all so happy for you, Herr Jacobs,” he says with practiced irony.

“What? Not hungry?”

He peels off a twenty-dollar bill from his wad for the bellhop. Still no chance to exchange currency. Tomorrow, Jake tells himself.

As the bellhop closes the door in back of him, Jake pops the cork on a bottle of sekt.

Now for a long night waiting for the wasted Fenethylline to wear off, Huber thinks. He could always go roust some homeless in the Prater. Great sport. But now is not the time for that sort of sport. It will come, soon enough. There will be a reckoning.

But a couple of floors down, he decides differently. He gets off the elevator, keeps his eye on the progress of the lift as it is called back to the tenth floor. Gives it a moment, then punches the down key again. He remembers the look the bellhop gave him, the quiet disgust.

The elevator stops at Huber’s floor as it descends, and he quickly slips on the balaclava he brought with. There is the bellhop, as expected, on his way back down to the ground floor, his eyes wide in terror now as he sees the balaclava.

Huber can barely wait for the door to close before he is on the man, knife drawn, slashing, not caring if he is blood-splattered. And there is splatter, a geyser as he strikes the carotid with the second deadly thrust. The bellhop stares at him, eyes wide, as the blood flows. Then his hands go to his neck, as if to stop it. Huber slashes his guts now, and it’s an abattoir.

He stops the elevator before it gets to the bottom floor. Smiles as he leaves it, no need to worry about the Fenethylline wearing off. He’s floating on it.

Takes the fire stairs down two at a time and a fire door out of the hotel. Stuffs the balaclava back in his jacket pocket. Unconcerned about his bloodied appearance: Darkness is falling, he stays in the shadows. Later, as he draws near the cheap pension where he’s staying, he turns his jacket inside out to hide the blood, now dried.

Yes, he tells himself. On my turf for the next round.

“You need some cheering up Vosenko. Lithuanian or not, you’ve got too much of the Russian darkness about you. Or maybe you just need to find a good woman.”

“Ahh.” Vosenko nods his head at this. “And that is what you have been up to this afternoon, is it? Playing the beast with two backs. Or did your friend Moody deliver a name for the server?”

“The former, the former. But I did learn something of value. Reni had a son—”

“Named Dani, probably short for Daniel,” Vosenko says.

“How the hell did you know?”

“She mentioned it once. The name. Said it was a friend’s child she had to take care of. But I knew. For an agent, Reni was a terrible liar.”

“So, what do you think? A son. He could want some vengeance, I suppose.”

Vosenko thinks it over for a moment. “Possibility. So another favor, then, from your friend Moody. Track Herr Daniel Huber.”

Jake isn’t sure how many more favors Moody is good for. “Let’s eat,” he says, pouring out two glasses of the sekt. He then plays like a magician removing the various silver cloches covering the food plates, displaying miniature cuts of Wiener schnitzel, goulash with a Semmelködel set in the middle, white spring asparagus wrapped in prosciutto, Käsespätzle, and finally two thick slices of Sacher Torte.

They eat in silence for a time. Suddenly Vosenko looks up from his food.

“And you, Jake. Did you ever have a child?” He asks it as if children are some sort of interesting mushroom to be uncovered in the forest.

Jake smiles. “Yeah. A daughter. Born in Vienna, as a matter of fact.”

Vosenko nods at this. “A daughter. Someone to care for you in old age.”

“I doubt that. She’s got a good career. I’ll take care of myself.”

“Yes. It is what we do, no? Take care of ourselves. Though sometimes, lonely nights on the moors, I have thought of what I missed. No wife. I assume you had a wife, as well.”

“Jesus, Vosenko. For KGB, you sure did not know much about the main enemy. Yes, a wife. With me in Vienna the whole time. No longer, though. But maybe I’ve got a second chance at love now. A new start.”

“Which explains your absence this afternoon?”

Jake is about to rattle Vosenko’s cage when he spots a video case peeking out of under a napkin.

“What the hell?” he says, pulling the video out of its case.

Crude writing in black Sharpie: “For your eyes only.”

The bellhop? Someone in the kitchen? Then he remembers the guy passing them in the hall, tripping into the tray. He goes to the door, checks the hallway.

Empty.

Closing the door, he nods at the television and says to Vosenko, “There a DVD player on that thing still?”

Vosenko nods. “A relic, but yes.”

“Let’s see what’s for our eyes only.”

The screen flashes awake as Vosenko hits play, and they are thrust into the middle of carnage. Screams coming from a man tied to a chair as another figure in a balaclava and military fatigues slices a finger off, then an ear.

Vosenko stops the machine. “Mater’ Bozh’ya,” he mutters. “Mother of God!”

“Keep playing it,” Jake commands. “This is a message for us.”

“You be the one to push the button, then,” Vosenko says. “This is for animals.”

Jake does so, watching the scene of carnage through to the coup de grace and the end of Sanderson’s pitiful screaming. The scene tears at his guts. He has to hold the vomit back, but splashes of bile still sting his throat.

Yet he forces himself to go through the scene a second time. There is something there. Something only partially noticed.

He shuts his emotions down and hits the play again, searching for any identifying marks on the attacker. With his face covered, the killer’s fatigues and military-style boots are the only distinguishing feature. But this second time through, he does catch sight of something, that subliminal clue from the first viewing.

As Sanderson thrashes about and the killer finally slits his throat, Jake stops the feed, hits the single back arrow on the remote to go slowly, then replays the final gory scene.

“There!” he shouts, bringing Vosenko out of his funk.

He pushes pause. The killer’s back is to the camera, but they can both see in a reflection of a mirror on the wall of Sanderson’s home that the attacker’s black jacket has opened in the scuffle. There seems to be a t-shirt underneath with writing on it. Jake and Vosenko go right up to the screen, hit pause, and peer at it for long minutes. Finally, Jake is able to decipher the backward writing: Kragossen.

They nod at each other, knowing the significance of that word.

It is the name of the country village where Reni came from.

“Well, we know where to go next,” Vosenko says.

“No way. This is obviously a set-up. What killer’s going to wear a t-shirt advertising their location? And just happen to have it exposed at a critical moment.”

Vosenko simply nods in reply. “Of course it’s a set-up. This animal’s warped invitation to us to come out and play. What he doesn’t know is that we are on to him. We know it’s a trap.”

And then Jake flashes to another bit of info detritus.

The guy in the hall excused himself for tripping into the tray. “Tschuldige.” Not the formal “Entschuldigung,” or “Es tut mir leid.” No. This was a voice from the country. The idiom of the country. Of Styria?

So, have I already met Daniel Huber? On his way to kill us? he wonders. Or just to deliver this invitation? Is that what Reckoning is really all about—revenging the death of a mother?

He intends to find out in the morning.

But their night sleep is spoiled with the arrival of several Viennese police officers at two a.m. They don’t bother with the niceties of a knock on the door. No, they’ve got a key card and let themselves in, pounding on his and Vosenko’s doors inside the suite. For the next two hours, Jake and Vosenko blink and yawn through question after question that all lead to the same reply from Jake.

“Why the hell am I going to kill the bellhop? I gave him a twenty-dollar tip and sent him on his way.”

Seems the bellhop’s badly carved corpse was discovered by an elderly American couple from Des Moines who’ve come to Vienna for the opening of a new production of Tosca.

Turns out Puccini’s opera is tame in the gore department compared to what they witnessed in the elevator, Jake figures.

“Look,” Jake says after more than ninety minutes of nonstop badgering, “I keep telling you there was this man who passed by us in the hall, tripped into the tray. His German sounded like a county dialect.”

“And you know this because you are a linguist, Herr Jacobs?”

The lead cop is a wiry little bastard who could easily play the Nazi villain in a WWII flick, Jake thinks. But he tries to keep things cordial.

“I know this because I once lived here, spent time in the countryside.”

In the end, he and Vosenko are saved the indignity of another trip to the cells of the Liesl when the desk clerk on duty in the evening recalls a man calling for Jacobs’ room number, citing an urgent flower delivery. The idiot loses his job on the spot—major no-no giving out room numbers. Could be a stalker. Or in this case a fucking killer.

Then the brilliant cops finally get around to checking the CCTV footage in the elevator itself, and are treated to the Reckoning style of murder. But still no ID because of the balaclava hiding his features.

Apologies all around, and no, Jake tells them, I can’t think of any reason someone would want to harm me or Mr. Vosenko.

No need to inform them that he is starting to believe Herr Daniel Huber has sent them an invitation to come out and play. But Jake spends what is left of the night tossing and turning, beating his down pillow into a ball, then flattening it in ten minutes. As he listens to Vosenko snoring in the other bedroom like a man with no sins to count.

He awakens in the single bed, not knowing where he is for the moment. Shuts his eyes, opens them. Overhead a light fixture dangles from its cord, an orange paper ball its shade; walls roller-painted with a floral design to make it look like the room is wallpapered. A vision of Vienna from the 1970s.

Not much he would know about that, but his Mutti often talked of the city she found when she first came from the country.

Oriented now, Huber drags himself out of bed. The Fenethylline rush sometimes has that effect on him. Forgetful, as if he’s given himself over to another power. He pads barefoot to the sink to throw water in his face and is shocked to see the pinkish residue of bloody water staining it.

And then the reason for the blood comes back to him, as well.

Fucking stupid, he tells himself. Slaps his forehead. Playtime killing. Not what he trained for all those years in the Jagdkommando.

It’s not so much the killing, as it is the senselessness of it. A bellhop. Jesus. He wouldn’t even know how to throw a punch let alone fend off a knife thrust. Not worthy of the game or the gamble. Not a real opponent.

He looks around the room of this cheap pension in the Fifteenth District. Shakes his head. Reminds him of some of the rooms he spent time in as a child, his Mutti and him not exactly dirt-ass poor, but careful with every groschen. She used to tell him that she had a secret benefactor who contributed to her meager pay as a domestic. But they had to be careful, spend wisely. Then, when he was about three, suddenly there was money growing on trees. A new flat in the Ninth District, nice clothes, dinners at a local Gasthaus.

That was when his Mutti—Reni—started working for Jacobs. Started playing whore for Jacobs. Before that she was just a cleaning lady at the CIA compound. Daniel’s first memories of were of her having to leave at night to her cleaning job. Then Jacobs, but still working at night. His jaw muscles tighten at this thought. Selling her body for Jacobs. Selling it to Vosenko.

Those are worthy adversaries, he thinks as he cleans the sink, not wanting to leave tell-tale signs. Feels sudden shame at the death of the bellhop.

You are not a creature, he tells himself. You are not a monster. You ration death. You are a soldier.

“So, you guys have a shit magnet, or something? Everywhere you go, trouble follows?”

Moody is more than living up to his name this morning, Jake figures. Shows up at the hotel in the morning not just moody, but well and truly pissed off.

“I get you an out-of-jail-free pass and then this.”

“It’s not like I killed the bellhop, Toby.”

“But now you’re telling me it’s the whacko from Reckoning who did it.”

“Sanderson’s death is on the DVD, like I said. Take a look if you want. It’s the same guy from the hallway last night. Same build, same clothing almost.”

“And you got a good look at his face, right?”

Jake shrugs. “I had other things on my mind. And who’d figure a hotel was stupid enough to give your room number to some bozo who calls, saying he’s got to deliver flowers?”

Moody nods at this, but not like he agrees. The nod turns into head shaking. “Christ, why did I ever listen to you. Now I got the Ambassador on my back.”

“She’s a good-looking woman, Toby. I’d have her on my back.”

“Shut the fuck up, will you? I’m here to tell you not to make any further waves in this fair city. I’d tell you to bugger off out of Austria, except that you’ve got a court date next week.”

Vosenko is enjoying this, lathering a breakfast Semmel with thick pats of butter and strawberry jam. Head jerking between Jake and Moody like a tennis fan seated at the net at Wimbledon.

“Beg pardon, Mr. Moody,” he says. “We do apologize for our magnets of shit…”

“Shit magnets, for Christ sake. Not made of shit, but attract it.”

“Yes, of course. Izvini, sorry. But I must inquire. Have you had any luck with the registry of the server?”

Moody’s nostrils turn white at this, never a good sign, Jake knows.

But he sucks air, casts his eyes to the heavens, and nods. Pulls a slip of paper out of his breast pocket. “I’ve got the name and more. Listed under a D. Huber.”

“Son of a bitch,” Jake says.

“What?” Moody waves the slip of paper like a fan.

“That’s most probably our friend from last night.”

“Well, that’s fortunate then, because I’ve also gone the extra mile. Our D. Huber was so stupid he didn’t bother to fake his address on the registry. Last known address, Felberstrasse 19, Apt. 4/22, Vienna. Back-checking from there we got his birth certificate.” He reads from the slip of paper: “Born July 2, 1983, son of one Renate Huber, marital status—single.”

“That’s our boy,” Jake says.

“And here’s something else you can have for nothing. Guy trained in the Jagdkommando, the Austrian special forces, made it all the way through the months-long brutal training course, one of about only ten percent who make the cut. Sent to Chad in 2008 to protect refugee camps, but was ultimately booted out of the elite force for insubordination—he physically attacked a superior officer. Not to mention the refugee kids he shot by accident.” Looks up from his paper. “Been working as a mountain guide for the last couple of years…. And oh yeah, one thing more. Huber was trained as a sniper.”

Moody pulls a photo out of the same pocket, a recruit photo from the Austrian Army. Shows a pleasant looking nineteen-year-old, his mouth caught between a smile and frown, as if he does not know how to present himself. Jake gives it a hard look. Same guy as last night in the hallway. But with a transformation. Guy knows how to present himself now. Made a transformation over the years.

Moody stands, yanks at his pants by the waist band. “So I’ve danced the good old boy dance for an old friend. And that’s it for me, right?”

“Absolutely,” Jake says.

“And remember,” Moody tells him. “This is their country, no more cowboys and Indians, right? You’ve got a court date, so don’t screw things up.”

“We just want to talk with him,” Jake says.

“Right. But do it quietly, okay? And get rid of the fucking body this time.”

He and Vosenko are armed as they head for Felberstrasse later that day. Not going anywhere solo now—Siamese twins until the dust settles.

The apartment house is near the Gürtel, the outer ring boulevard—it’s a gray and cavernous old building, built in the late nineteenth century and reeking with the musty smell of age. A tenement in its day, it is still home to the less privileged in Vienna, recent immigrants and refugees, by the look of the men gathered by the front of the building, smoking pungent cigarettes. They give Jake and Vosenko the once over, but soon go back to their smoking and gossip. Jake figures he and Vosenko pose no threat to them—not wearing uniforms, not even a suit to mark them as undercover cops.

Apartment 22 is on the fourth set of stairs, as they finally discover after wandering in the gloom of the vast entryway for minutes. There is the acrid smell of cooking as they climb the stairs, and music of the Balkans carries from an apartment. They get to 22 and Jake takes the lead at the door with Vosenko to the side ready to pounce, his gun drawn.

No answer to the first knock.

After a ten count, Vosenko nods for him to try again.

Louder this time and longer.

Finally, Jake hears the shuffle of footsteps, a cautious unbolting of at least three locks. The door opens slowly, still on the chain, offering only a three-inch view. An elderly man, his face bristling with gray whiskers, whisps of white hair on his pate. A small, owl-like woman huddling in back of him, a babushka on her head. Man’s eyes grow wide and frightened when he catches sight of Vosenko, who quickly puts his gun under his jacket.

“Daniel Huber,” Jake says. “Wir wollen mit ihm sprechen, bitte. Talk to him, yes?”

Alarm shows on the man’s face; the woman huddles closer to him now.

“Nicht da,” the man says in a deeply accented voice.

Jake taps an imaginary wrist watch. “Wann? When come back?”

The man shakes his head so violently his jowls move. “No come back.” He makes a waving motion. “Weg, seit zwei Jahren.”

Two years gone. Great, Jake thinks. He believes the old guy. Looks scared as hell. Like they still live in terror Huber might one day return. Sweetheart of a guy, Huber.

But he and Vosenko know where to find him now, got an RSVP.

They grab a cab, head back for the Intercontinental, but halfway there, Vosenko says, “A pilgrimage, Jake?”

“Not really the religious sort, Yuri. What do you have in mind?”

“Votivkirche?”

Jake’s stomach jerks at the mention. “For real?”

“For real,” Vosenko says. “Pay our respects.”

Cab drops them at Strasse des Achten Mai just in front of the cathedral. That street didn’t have a name in their day, just a traffic area on Rooseveltplatz. A tourist sign tells them that a few years back the city council decided to name it after the date Germany surrendered: Victory in Europe Day.

Church is bigger than Jake remembers. And more impressive. Been years since he’s noticed architecture. Since architecture deserved notice. Scaffolding next to the portal. The endless cleaning of such structures, like painting the Golden Gate. So expansive that by the time you finish cleaning or painting, it’s time to start all over again.

“She loved this church,” Vosenko says as they approach the stone steps to the portal.

“I didn’t know she was religious,” Jake says.

Vosenko shakes his head. “She wasn’t. But for some reason she loved this place.”

“Reni was the one to tell me it’s fake. Not Gothic at all. She loved doing that kind of shit, busting myths.”

Vosenko shrugs, moves uneasily toward the steps.

On the left, Jake remembers. Bottom step. Can almost see her lifeless body there. Cups his hands respectively in front of him just as a group of excited school children noisily exit followed by their harried teacher trying his best to keep them together.

After the children pass, they stand for a moment by the bottom step, say nothing. Vosenko peering closely at the stone as if he expects to still see blood stains. Jake expected epiphany; what he gets is ho-hum. Can’t even call up anger, sadness. Where it all began, but returning makes no difference. Not a fucking iota of difference.

Vosenko finally breaks the silence. “Stupid games. Big men playing little boy games. Life and death games.”

“It was a different time, Yuri.”

Shake of the head. “Not so different. Enemies everywhere. Always. If not the Soviet Union, then it’s the Muslims. Or the Chinese. Or the man next door who took your morning paper. We need to look in the mirror more, Jake.” He sighs. “Real enemy staring right back at us.”

So not a terrific success, Jake thinks as they take a taxi back to the Intercontinental. Not a healing sort of pilgrimage. Life all a jumble of incident without rhyme or reason. Just one more thing they did, visiting the scene of Reni’s death. But what did it signify?

Vosenko is contemplative as they round the Ring toward the hotel. Out of the cab and up the front steps, he says, “I truly regret I can no longer drink for effect. Perhaps you can do that for me tonight, Jake.”

It’s an early and big day tomorrow, so Jake does only a bit of mild drinking with Vosenko. They are busy packing that night when there is a knock at their door. Jake and Vosenko lock eyes; a shrug from Vosenko. Huber back for another bite at the apple?

Jake sticks his Glock in the back of his waist band just in case, takes a gander through the peephole, sees a short, elderly guy with thinning gray hair in the burgundy blazer of the hotel staff, and unlocks the door.

“Yes?” he says.

The man smiles, but not with the eyes. “I was asked to deliver a message, sir. May I enter?”

“You can just hand it over, thanks. We’re in the middle of packing.”

“Only a second needed,” the man says, an edge to his voice.

Jake catches the vibe too late. He’s reaching for his Glock when the guy puts his own hardware, another Glock, up to Jake’s forehead.

“Hold on, friend,” Jake says.

Vosenko’s got his gun out as Jake edges backwards into the room, a shield for the uniformed man.

“Tell your friend to put his gun down,” the man says in fluent but heavily accented English. “I am prepared to die, but I will take you with me.” His gun hand begins to shake, finger tight on the trigger.

Jake’s got his hands up now, deciding whether to negotiate or duck and hope Vosenko takes the shot.

“What do you want?” Vosenko barks at him.

“Justice,” the man answers. “For my son.”

Negotiate, Jake decides, his stomach churning, a ringing in his ears. “Who is your son?”

“Who was my son, you mean. So insignificant for you. But for me, my whole life. My reason for living. And you took him away from me.”

The barrel presses harder into Jake’s forehead.

“I don’t know who you mean,” Jake says.

“The bellhop,” Vosenko says, his voice low and somber. “Your son was the fellow murdered last night.”

“Yes. And not the ‘bellhop.’ His name was Andreas. He was nineteen and earning money for the university to study medicine. So eager, so optimistic always. And you took that away from me.”

“We didn’t kill your son,” Jake says. “It was a man named Daniel Huber.”

The man fights back tears now. “And who unleashed this animal Huber? You two. My friends told me about you. Cold War ‘heroes,’ playing your deadly games again. But this time you will answer for your crimes.”

“I’m putting my gun down now,” Vosenko says. “Down, see?”

Jake hears the inflection on the last word. Man’s eyes track to Vosenko for a fraction of a second and Jake’s left hand sweeps the Glock out his hand, his right fist smashing into his face, knocking him to the floor. Jake kicks his gun aside and has his own Glock out and aimed at the guy’s head.

“Slowly,” he says. “Get up, hands high.”

The man does not move for long seconds, then hands to his face, he begins crying, uncontrollable sobs that wrack his entire body.

Vosenko’s got the man’s gun now. Checks the chamber. “Empty,” he says.

Jake puts his gun away, offers the grieving father a hand up. “Come on. Let’s talk. I’m truly sorry about Andreas.”

The man sucks air, trying to still his sobbing. Shakes his head at the offered hand and finally struggles to his feet.

“I do not care what you do with me. I had to confront you. Tell you what you have done to me and Andreas. We are not here on the earth just as pawns in your stupid games. We are people, people. With dreams and hopes and love. Why did you come here and bring this darkness? Why?”

Jake doesn’t bother trying to answer him. Instead, “You work here, right?”

“Go ahead. Have me fired. I wish only to disappear, to die. I should never have secured the position here for Andreas. My fault.” He shouts now, “My fault!”

“We have also lost loved ones and friends, sir,” Vosenko says in a calm, almost soothing voice. “This animal, as you call Huber, has killed before and will again unless we stop him. I am truly sorry about your son, sir…”

“Stop with the ‘sir’,” he shouts. Then in a normal tone of voice, “Lechner. Dieter Lechner, that is my name.” A stubby forefinger pocking his chest. But his body is still shaking.

“I am truly sorry about Andreas, Herr Lechner,” Vosenko says. “It was not our intention to bring tragedy to others. We have had enough of tragedies. But we have been forced into this hunt.”

Lechner looks down, shaking his head. “I wanted you to feel a tiny piece of the horror I have experienced the last twenty-four hours.” Looking up now, thumb and forefinger measuring an inch. “Just a fraction of my despair.” He makes a fist of the hand.

“Sit,” Jake says. “We can talk.”

“No.” He sighs. “I am a coward, of course. Too frightened to put even one bullet in the gun. Not enough of a man to be able to take vengeance for my own son. So, call the police. Call the management. I have nothing more to lose. Andreas was my last connection to the world. My only child, his mother dead in childbirth. Call the dogs on me, please. I am too much of a coward to even take my own life.”

“We’re not calling anybody,” Jake says. “And Andreas would want you to carry on. He spoke so highly of you.”

Lechner lifts his shoulders at this. “You spoke with him?”

“Briefly, only,” Jake says. “As we were in the elevator. He told me about his plans. Bragged about his father who was an important man at the Intercontinental, who was able to secure a job so he could earn money for university. He smiled when he mentioned you. He was proud of you, how you had raised him single-handedly. I could feel his love for you. And he would want you to continue for him. To live for him, not to erase the Lechner name. Wirklich, really. Ich sage die Wahrheit. It’s the truth.”

Another head-shake from Lechner, but not so violently now. “Andreas.” A chocked sob. He looks at his pistol lying on the carpet. Sighs, turns, and silently leaves the room.

They make no attempt to stop him, but Jake locks up after he’s gone.

Silence for a time.

Finally, “So much discussion in such a short trip up the elevator,” Vosenko says. “I confess. I did not witness such a connection between you and the young man last night. Did not see a youth baring his soul.”

“Yeah,” Jake says, “probably not.” Adrenalin still flowing but also a queasy feeling of emptiness, a deep sadness.