South of Valencia, near the little Spanish former fishing village of Calpe, there is a spit of land that runs into the sea and ends in a huge thousand-foot-high exclamation point known as the Rock of Ifach. It can be seen for miles up and down the Costa Blanca but dominates the view from the luxurious sunbaked houses opposite, high up on the hills. Unlike the other residences, traditional Mediterranean-style buildings in stucco with tile roofs, Max Kämpe’s modern villa in the Mies van der Rohe mode made no compromises with its setting—three enormous slabs of concrete and glass resting on top of one another with terraces jutting out in different directions, all of it enclosed by a high wall. The sort of place that promised privacy and, along with the panoramic views of crystal blue sea and mountains, a less stressful way of life.
Reiner had almost forgotten how laid-back it was here and how good Pilar’s cooking was. The simple lunch of fish and rice, a local favorite, had been delicious. Naked, he stretched out on the deck chair under a tall date palm by the pool and poured himself a coppery-amber glass of Carlos I, the best brandy Spain had to offer. Raising the fragrant snifter to his lips, he took a sip. “Hmmmm, liquid gold. Wunderbar!” It was good to be back free and uncluttered, but best of all to be out of France.
Of all his personas, Max Kämpe was Reiner’s favorite. He enjoyed Kämpe’s style, his villa, his cars, but they were hardly a weakness. Simply another safe house, another setting, another mask to put on for a few days or weeks while doing business before moving on. He also enjoyed the three-hour Spanish lunches but, as he’d discovered not long after he bought the house, more as a concept than a fact. For the truth was that though it always took him a while to unwind when he arrived, he soon became annoyed by the waste of time. Perhaps that was why he never stayed here very long.
Reiner had been in Spain three days now and still couldn’t relax. But the Spanish sun helped, soaking into his bones and his hair, which was now washed back to its original blond. The sun felt as if it were purifying him, burning all that he’d been through out of his flesh, his mind. And his headaches, thankfully, seemed to have gone. But not the black dreams. What had started out as a simple enough job that should have ended with a run-of-the-mill car crash—not so different from others he’d done—had gone wrong and turned into a sloppy bloodbath.
How could that have happened when everything seemed to be falling into place for him the night he returned to L’Ermitage? All of them gone except Phillips. It was a perfect setup. But when he searched the house, Phillips wasn’t there, or in the barn either, it seemed at first. Then he found him. The two twelve-gauge number one shells in the shotgun were all Reiner had to work with, but that was all he needed. And it didn’t take long. He was on his way out when the three friends unexpectedly came back. He’d been too busy inside the barn to hear their car arrive. Call it bad luck all around. It wasn’t that he was unprepared for emergencies or too rigid or lacked the imagination to improvise if need be, but the unexpected always made Reiner nervous, angry. The bastards! They could have easily ruined everything for him. Reiner slipped back inside the barn before anyone saw him and found what he wanted in the Arab’s toolbox. As they got out of the car, he stood there, blocking their way. The look on their faces was priceless. Herding the three of them into the house at gunpoint, he told them to shut the fuck up and walk, almost as if he himself believed that his shotgun was loaded.
What followed still remained jumbled in his mind. Maybe because killing with a blade at close range was as trackless and alien to him as the Arctic. Which explained, he supposed, why he could barely recall exactly what came next. Except for his growing sense of exhilaration, fear, disgust, and fury as he went from one to the next in a frenzy of blood and muffled cries. Controlling events had always been central to everything Reiner was and did, and here in an instant he’d broken free of the gravity of habit. Free of the limits he’d known all his life. Excited beyond his wildest imagination, he felt amazingly liberated, as if falling headlong through space in a mindless rage for the next blow, the next sound.
“Another bottle, Senor Kämpe?”
He looked up. It was Pilar, her eyes fixed appreciatively on his bare genitals as if they were being exhibited at the Prado. Reiner couldn’t care less. If she wanted to look, let her gaze to her heart’s content. She needed a little sex in her life, poor woman. Aber, he thought, Vorsicht Kunst. Drive her out of her mind.
He wondered if at that hour he could reach Spada in Zurich. He told Pilar to bring him his red phone, but her mind was elsewhere.
“En seguida!” he snapped, and she scurried away.
Reiner’s housekeeper had little education, but she wasn’t stupid and ordinarily did what she was told. Exactly what he wanted. A single woman in her forties with a birthmark that covered one whole side of her face like a purple ink blot. He thought it a plus when hiring her—assuming that she was a quiet spinster—but as he learned, her disfigurement didn’t stop Pilar from having admirers. Rodrigo was the sleazebag who nearly cost Pilar her job. The three-car garage on the property held Max Kämpe’s black BMW; his red Ferrari; and, his personal preference, the Bentley Azure. One day, her beloved Rodrigo took the Bentley out for a joyride, and when he was stopped for driving under the influence, he of course didn’t have the registration. The policía called the house and told Pilar what had happened.
Reiner, who was away at the time, would probably never have heard of the incident if Rodrigo had been alone in the car instead of with another woman. When he did hear, Reiner was livid. He warned her never again to bring her drunken lovers into his house. He said if he found another Rodrigo there, he’d cut off his nuts and kick her out on her ass. The well-paid Pilar had no intention of losing a good job. After that, he had no more trouble with her. That is, except for the budgies.
It happened one perfumed night when the air was filled with guitars and the scent of Valencia orange blossoms. Restless and hungry, he’d gotten out of bed and gone down to the kitchen for something to eat. It was then he heard them, the honeyed voices. They were coming from Pilar’s room.
“Mi bella. Mi amor. Eres tan caliente, querida. Haz el amor conmigo, mi corazón.”
Enraged, Reiner burst through her door like a battering ram. The two of them stared at each other in dumb amazement. The room was full of caged birds. The uncaged yellow-and-gray one in bed with her, who had been doing all the yapping, flew up to the light fixture on the ceiling crying, “Pilar! Pilar, mi amor!” As Pilar attempted to coax it down, the bird cooed, “Bésame, guapa.” Reiner told the housekeeper to get her gabby friend back in his cage pronto and shut him up, or he would. Storming out of the room, he slammed the door behind him. Better birds than boyfriends, he thought, and never mentioned her roommates again.
Pilar returned with the red phone and he snatched it out of her hands, dialed Zurich, and waited for the bank to connect him to Numbered Accounts. Reiner recognized the bank officer’s velvety tones immediately. “Ah, Monsieur Spada.” He gave the manager the number of his account and asked him to check on the latest deposit. Spada was not gone very long.
“You’re sure of that?”
“Oh yes. Quite sure.”
Reiner felt the muscles at the base of his neck throb. They were tight as clamps. As soon as he’d left Taziac—his job finished—he’d called the phone number in Paris that Pellerin gave him with the news. Blond said he’d tell him. But that was three days ago, and the rest of his money still hadn’t been deposited. He loathed any delays in payments, any changes or irregularities in agreed-upon financial arrangements. Reiner jumped up and hurried into his bedroom where he slipped into his tennis whites, grabbed his racquet, wallet, keys, his expensive aviator shades. Calls like the one he had to make required a public phone, and Benidorm was only a short ride away.
The Bentley, with its top down and whisper-smooth 6.75-liter V-8 engine, was a joy to drive and could hit over 230 kph if there were any decent roads in the area to drive on. He took a deep breath. The smell of the magnolia-white leather seats, the lamb’s-wool rugs, the walnut trim, everything about his Bentley soothed. So did the CD he was playing, the debut album of Oliver Schmid’s German sextet Lacrimas Profundere, an amusing heavy-metal band full of gothic groans and heart-tugging weltschmerz. It took the edge off how rankled he felt. He couldn’t bear an unreliable client.
Entering Benidorm, Reiner pulled up in front of the Gran Hotel Delfin, which faced the beach, and got out. The door of the Bentley closed with the satisfying solidity of a bank vault. From the house phone on the front desk, he notified Senor Rincón that he’d be out on the court in fifteen minutes. The Delfin’s tennis pro was always available for a fast set with Senor Kämpe, followed by a bracing single-malt whiskey chaser in the bar. Just off the lobby, Reiner went to the public phone booth and placed his racquet on the floor. Dialing the number in Paris, he waited for what seemed to him a long time before Pellerin picked up the receiver.
“Ah, so you’re there. Good. I wouldn’t want to have missed you a second time. Did Blond tell you I called?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Don’t jerk me around. I took care of your business. Now it’s your turn. Where’s the rest of my money?”
There was a long pause.
“I don’t like the early reports,” Pellerin broke out. “We asked for one soloist, not a whole damn quartet. Jesus, what were you thinking of?”
“Nothing to get exercised about. It was necessary to make a few last-minute improvisations. You wanted terminal, and that’s what you got. But don’t worry. There’ll be no extra charge.”
“Fine. But we also wanted restraint, discretion, no questions asked, and instead Taziac has already turned into a horror show—an international incident. What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you understand what we expected?”
“Calm down. You have nothing to worry about.”
“You can’t be serious. The story is all over the newspapers, the radio, the TV.”
“Mere blips on the radar screen. That will all be gone in a few days when they arrest the murderer.”
“What?” Pellerin sounded startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t strain your mind. Trust me. You’ll see,” Reiner assured him. “I told you a few days.”
Pellerin found the German’s telephone voice as chilling as the accounts he’d read of the gruesome murders. Hard to reconcile with the handsome young man he’d met in Berlin. Of course he’d known there was a sinister side to Reiner. But this man was all sinister. Pellerin hated to have him in his ear.
“I hope you’re right, monsieur. Okay, a few days. We’ll expect a call from you then. And,” Pellerin added, “that’s when you’ll get your final installment.” There was a dead silence at the other end of the line that he didn’t care for at all. He wondered if his caller was still there.
When he spoke again, Reiner’s voice was ice. “If I don’t get my money, I’ll do better than give you a call.” He hoped the Frenchy understood this as a threat, because it was.