Shout in the Dark (23 page)

If the monks were still at the monastery
they would surely know something about the relic. With a bit of
luck they would still have it. Getting it from them was a problem
for Karl to solve. Otto had promised much but always failed to
deliver.
So
where was that monastery?
The photographer was useless.

"
Anhalten!
" Kessel gave his instructions to the short-sleeved Otto
who was browning his left arm on the frame of the open window as he
drove. "Give me the phone. I have to make a private
call."

Otto dutifully pulled off the road onto a
dusty patch under the shadow of a row of pines. Kessel reached
forward and unlatched the cell phone from its cradle. He walked a
suitable distance from the car and dialed a Rome number, a dread in
his heart. He was doing the thing he had vowed he would never do
again; never since he had finally settled in Germany.

The phone was answered. "This is Renata
Bastiani. Who is it?"

"
Mamma? It's Enzo!" How he loathed his old Italian name. The
hurt went too deep for the wounds to heal, and the tone of his
mother's voice brought back vivid images of his childhood. He could
feel the sweat running from his face, and it was already marking
his shirt with dark patches.

He turned to see both Otto and Karl watching
from the car with interest. He dabbed at his face with his
handkerchief. Damn those two.

"
Let me come and see you, Mamma... Yes, I'd like to come
this evening. At eight?... Bruno? Is he there with you now?... No,
of course I don't want to see him. Make sure he's gone or I... Yes,
eight o'clock."

He switched off the phone. He should have
guessed that Bruno was living at home again. Bruno was always
running home to Mamma. There was no way he would meet that Jewboy
from his bleak childhood.

If Bruno had flown to Köln to see the
Bayers, he must also be after the relic. What possible interest
could it be to a left wing fanatic? Karl must not dispose of Bruno
until that question had been answered.

He hurried back to the car while Karl and
Otto continued to stare out at him.

"
What's the matter with you two?" he snapped. "Haven't you
seen anyone use a phone before? Wake up, Otto, and get us back to
Rome. I have an appointment this evening -- but first I'm taking
you to see the sights."

GINA PEPINO WAS the thinnest of the Gypsy
children, and the oldest. With two brothers and a sister to
support, as well as a disabled father, and a mother
always too busy to leave the
caravans, she was in charge of the family purse. Disabled or not,
her father Guido seemed nimble enough to get here every evening to
keep an eye on things, and later in the evening to leave them while
he went to meet his friends in one of the bars. Gina often thought
it was a pity there was no work her father could manage during the
day.

Earning money near the Colosseum was never a
problem. In the summer there was more money around and more
valuables of every sort, but in any season the pickings were
sufficient for her family to exist in some luxury. She knew of
other Gypsy families who were ill and dying from disease. In the
winter the cold could kill any of them, but perhaps even the rich
Romans found the cold of winter deadly. Now in the summer it was
the heat beating down on their caravans that caused the
problems.

On this day as every other day in the
tourist season, Gina and two of her brothers were playing with a
large sheet of cardboard by the side of the Via dei Fori Imperiali.
The wide, straight street was Gina's idea of an avenue up to
heaven, except that instead of the celestial city this one ended at
a tumbledown, circular building that attracted never-ending
coachloads of rich people.

With her mid-brown hair and eyes of the
darkest chocolate, Gina knew some tourists considered her cute. She
heard them saying it. But her dark eyes were set deep in a face of
harsh skin. Lack of care and nourishment seemed to have turned her
into an old woman at the age of twelve.

She and her brothers were on the lookout
for two or three tourists on their own. Laughing, her brothers
would push the large sheet of cardboard at the tourists' faces,
making it seem like a game and getting the visitors to Rome to join
in the fun. It was simple and it paid for food.

OTTO PARKED
his Audi in one of the narrow roads at the back of
the amphitheatre and set the alarm. It paid to be careful with a
stylish station wagon in a place like this, he told
Kessel.

Karl was already pushing on ahead, making
his way through the early evening sightseers to cross the busy
street. Kessel hurried to catch up, leaving Otto some way behind.
"Tell me, Karl, do you like the car?"

"
An Audi? It's looks good enough to me, Herr
Kessel."

"
Serve
Achtzehn Deutschland Reinigung
well and a car like that could be yours. Maybe
even that one."

Karl opened his mouth and stared.
"When?"

"
I'll tell you when. Quiet now, here comes Otto."

The Colosseum was still open to visitors.
"Quite staggering when you get close," observed Kessel as they
entered one of the huge arches, adding with a laugh, "The Colosseum
was once a place of extermination for the undesirables,
Karl."

"
Its real name is the Flavian Amphitheatre, Herr Kessel. It
was like a football ground. Eighty numbered entrances and fifty
thousand spectators. I've been reading your guide book."

The young neo-Nazi showed a surprising
knowledge. Kessel again saw Karl Bretz in a new light. Perhaps he
wasn't quite the
Dummkopf
he
appeared on the surface.

"
And it only took eight years to build," added
Karl.

Three ragged children were playing in the
street, poor children without shoes. They seemed to be having fun
with a large piece of cardboard, chasing each other and squealing
with laughter. Suddenly the brats were at their feet.

"
Spare some money for an ice-cream, signori?" pleaded the
eldest.

Kessel, always suspicious of begging
children, instinctively held his hand against his trouser pocket to
guard his wallet. "
Certamente no!
"
His Italian was perfect and his loud voice usually frightened
beggars away.

Up came the cardboard sheet, forcing him
to throw his head back to avoid being hit. To the children it was
obviously just a bit of fun, making the adults raise their heads
out of danger. To Kessel, unaware at that moment of the busy little
hands working unseen below the cardboard, it was annoying in the
extreme. Then as suddenly as they had appeared the laughing
children ran off up the grass towards some bushes.

"
What did they want?" asked Karl.

"
Money for ice cream. Beggars on the streets! Where are
the
carabinieri
,
that's what I'd...
Those filthy kids!
They've taken my wallet! It has details of the ADR in
it!"

Karl was quick despite his lumbering frame
-- too quick for undernourished Gypsy children. Gina and her
brothers were just cresting the top of the grassy slope when he
caught up with them. Gina screamed with terror as she took a last
look at the big man before darting behind a wall.

Karl slid round the corner on the dry
grass, catching hold of the wall to reduce his speed for the sharp
turn. His reactions were slowed and he was unable to change from
hunter to hunted. The blade slashed across his right arm. Facing
him, knife at arm's length, was Guido Pepino.

The Gypsy children cowered behind their
small, dark-skinned father. Karl drew his Göring dagger before a
second blow could do any damage. With blood oozing from his
forearm, he deliberately dived to the ground and rolled over. His
training had been sound. As his body came full circle he swept
himself upright, dagger ahead, thrusting upwards with the full
weight of his moving body behind it.

The Gypsy had probably not expected such
skill and speed. Karl's dagger went deep into Guido Pepino's thigh.
The Gypsy pulled himself away, horror on his dirt-ingrained face.
His knife fell to the ground as he clutched his leg. Karl struck
again, aiming for the stomach but hitting the lower ribs
instead.

As their father fell, a scream went up from
the children. Karl grabbed the terrified girl, holding the Göring
dagger, bright red with blood, to her throat.

"
Where's the wallet?" he yelled, ignoring the man twisting
in agony at his feet.

The children, probably unable to
understand German, seemed to interpret the question from the
desperation in the large man's voice. The sight of their father's
blood on the foreigner's knife scared them.

"
Si, si!
" the girl replied earnestly, pulling the wallet from
beneath her dress.

Nursing his slashed arm Karl returned to the
main street, the wallet held tightly in his hand. The children ran
ahead, pleading with the gathering crowd to come and help their
father.

A
carabinieri
car, cruising the Via dei Fori Imperiali, did a slow U-turn
to investigate the commotion. As the hysterical Gina started to cry
loudly, Karl wrapped his arm in his hastily removed sweatshirt and
melted into the crowd. Within seconds, he had blended in with the
tourists taking an evening stroll around the Colosseum.

While the Gypsy was taken in a critical
condition to the local hospital with a perforated lung, his
children were probably already planning to be back the next day
playing tricks with their sheet of cardboard to amuse the wealthy
tourists.

"
You're a fool!" said Kessel coldly. He patted the wallet.
"But, Karl, thanks for getting it back. There are too many names in
there for it to fall into the wrong hands."

"
It was your own fault, Herr Kessel," said Karl calmly. "The
worst thing you can do when you fear pickpockets is to check the
pocket it's in. Those kids knew exactly where your wallet
was."

Kessel ignored him. He didn't need lessons
from this overweight youth. "Otto, I've had enough of this ruin.
Drop me somewhere down by the Palazzo Venezia. I've got someone to
see at eight but I want to get my hair cut first. Take Karl back to
the hotel and keep him out of sight. Don't go near a hospital:
the
carabinieri
will
be looking for a man with knife wounds."

"
That's great!" groaned Karl. "What do you want me to do,
bleed to death?"

"
Find a pharmacy, Otto. Get a big sticking plaster for that
arm of his, but make sure he stays in the car. I'll give you
some...
Those bloody
Gyps
ies!
They've
been in here! They've had my little notebook of phone
numbers.
And
my credit
card. We're going to be short of money!"

"
Most of your money's in the hotel safe," Karl said
reassuringly. "It's okay, Herr Kessel, I'll get your card stopped.
You go to your appointment. I don't mind speaking to the bank -- if
you've got their number."

"
Of course I haven't got the number!
Um Gottes
willen
, Karl! I've just
told you: the phone list has been stolen!"

"
I know how to cancel a credit card," said Otto, starting
the engine of his Audi. "I always keep the number in my
wallet."

Kessel gave a dry smile and reached into
an inner pocket.
"Those
kids missed this." He pulled out a charge card. "There's not a lot
of money on it. I keep it for emergencies. And I've still got my
driving license, for what it's worth." He wanted to appear in
control of the situation. "Karl's right, we have enough money at
the hotel for a few days. We'll be all right as soon as the new
card comes. Get it sent to the hotel by express post, Karl, and I'm
trusting you to cancel the old one. Those Gypsies have probably
sold it by now."

"
Leave it to me, Herr Kessel."

"
Thanks." Kessel leaned across to Karl and spoke softly to
avoid Otto overhearing. "You'll be all right, Otto's going to look
after you until I get back. But don't ask him to show you any
photos of his mother."

Chapter
21

RENATA
BASTIANI felt compelled to wear black. She had worn black since the
hateful day in 1943 when the Nazis killed her husband in front of
the frightened family trying to escape by train at the Stazione
Centrale. She hated all Germans, and she would wear black until the
day she died and could finally be at rest. Her memories of the
final years of the war still made her shudder.

The looks, the whispered conversations.
Those wartime neighbors had long since gone, leaving new occupants
to witness ... what? An elderly, unhappy woman living with one son
called Bruno; while the other boy had gone off goodness knows
where, and not been back here for years to see his old
mother.