Shout in the Dark (36 page)

"
We're going to find that bronze head. Then we'll use it to
kill the enemy."

"
You mean Karl Bretz?" The memory of the big skinhead made
Laura shudder. "It's over now, Riccardo. Bruno's gone. We have to
stop."

"
We can't stop. We owe it to Bruno. It's like killing
snakes. I remember what my uncle used to say about the Germans in
the war: when you've killed a snake you don't put your hand in the
hole. There's another down in there, and it's always more
dangerous."

"
Karl Bretz is dangerous," said Laura.

"
Which is why we have to kill him. Get in touch with Sartini
again. Tell him your phone call was a mistake. He's so innocent
he'll help us all the way. If we don't move fast, the
zoticone
will have a chance to fight
back."

"
So what do I say to Marco?" She felt the effects of the
wine wearing off rapidly.

"
Arrange to meet him again. He spotted a clue in that
letter. Persuade your mother to let him see all your father's
letters. There could be more clues. Hell, Laura, I don't care what
the bronze head is, but we need it to attract the
fascists."

"
I told you, I've had enough of killing."

"
You promised to help, Laura. We don't have to kill them.
When the fascists know we've got the relic, they'll come running to
us -- and that's when we expose every one of them. You'll
understand when you've sobered up. Got to go. I'll phone you later
this evening. Go back to sleep."

"
I haven't
been
to
sleep."

But Riccardo had put the phone down.

Chapter
31

Via Nazionale

AT SEVEN THE next morning, Karl finished
his frantic packing in the small hotel bedroom. The pictures on the
early morning television news had been devastating. No wonder Herr
Kessel hadn
't come back
last night. He realized that if he'd been watching the news
yesterday evening, instead of spending the time with an older woman
in her hotel room, he could have been well on his way back to
Germany by now. But the woman he'd met in the bar had been good and
obviously appreciated fit young men.

Frantically he zipped Otto's case shut. He
must clear every trace of occupation from the three rooms. Paying
the bill could be a problem, but hopefully the desk clerk would not
be around this early to ask for payment. The sooner he was out of
the place the sooner he could get home, away from the killers of
Herr Kessel and Otto. His turn might be next.

"
Goodbye, Rome!" He held Otto's case in one hand, his own in
the other. Herr Kessel's case was already in the boot of the little
Fiat. Damn! A young receptionist had come on duty.

"
Off so early, signore? How do you wish to pay?"

Karl opened his hands in a helpless
gesture, hoping to indicate that he was unable to speak Italian.
The young clerk, probably used to foreigners staying at the hotel,
merely pointed to the total on the bill. The man was not one of the
daytime staff, so he was unlikely to know any of the guests by
name. Without a word, Karl slapped Herr Kessel's credit card on the
high wooden counter littered with sightseeing leaflets.

"
Manfred Kessel?" The clerk stared at the card. "I
thought..." He stopped, as though realizing the young German would
not understand. Karl knew that since the booking had been made
jointly, one of them was in the register as Kessel. Payment was
payment, and Karl guessed that this rundown hotel needed money, not
trouble.

"
Uno momento
." The bill was large. He smiled reassuringly at the large
guest and went into the office, presumably to check the card by
telephone. Discreetly, of course.

Karl had been taught not only to appear
relaxed but to feel relaxed deep down. The TV news
just now had been a real
shocker, in spite of being all in Italian. The pictures of the dead
men were enough to tell him he was now on his own. First Otto
burned to death at Monte Sisto, and now Herr Kessel killed in the
Flavian Amphitheatre by a knife.

"
Please enter your PIN, signore."

He'd seen Herr Kessel's entering the PIN
often enough, and tapped it in confidently. He could forge the
signature as well if he had to. The telephone check must have
proved satisfactory, which meant the card was still creditworthy.
Well, he knew it would be: there was no reason for it to have been
cancelled. He reckoned he'd been pretty smart the other evening at
the Colosseum, while hurrying back with his slashed arm wrapped in
his shirt, to have extracted the card and the list of names and
phone numbers from Herr Kessel's wallet.

"
Thank you, Signor Kessel.
Bon giorno
."

He couldn't help smiling as he walked
slowly out to the rental car. It wouldn't do to be seen leaving in
a hurry. He laughed as he climbed into the driving seat of the
Fiat, feeling for the piece of plastic in his shirt pocket. If Herr
Kessel was alive he would still be waiting in vain for the
replacement card to arrive from Germany.

He drove slowly down the Via Nazionale. The
rental office where he and Herr Kessel had collected the Fiat
should be somewhere down here on the right.

It was a different woman on duty. "I want
to extend the rental on the car. Two days. Two?
Due? Si?
" He felt pleased with his grasp of the
language. He pointed to the laden Fiat in the street and placed the
card on the table. A visual clue might help as he made a pretence
of writing with his finger, looking up at the attractive girl in
the company uniform.

The card went through the till check without
a hitch, and the girl beamed the company smile as she presented him
with a rental agreement revised for a further two days.

Reaching the little Fiat he punched his
fists in the air in elation. The car was now legally his, so
the
carabinieri
would not be looking for it. The Fiat would be safe all the
way to Germany. But Herr Kessel had spoken of an enemy in Rome.
Rome could be full of enemies. Unfortunately, so could Germany.
Associating with the old Jew had been bad enough. To be part of a
seriously failed mission was a disaster. Perhaps he would do well
not to hurry back to the Homeland.

He decided to get fuel at the first
opportunity, then leave Rome on the
Autostrada del Sole
, going north. With a full tank he could
drive this toy for the whole morning without stopping. Once on
the
autostrada
there
was a risk, albeit a small one, of being followed -- and a chase
was not the time for fuel to be running low.

While the attendant filled the tank
with
sensa
pombino
he went to the
kiosk to pay with Herr Kessel's card. He saw a rack of daily papers
on sale and one in particular caught his attention. It had a
picture of Herr Kessel on the front page, obviously copied from the
photograph the man always carried in his pocket, complete with the
crease mark across his neck and shirt.

Dropping the paper on the counter he
indicated to the cashier that he wanted it added to the fuel bill.
Never before had he been allowed unlimited spending. But soon he
would have to report that the card had been stolen -- along with
Herr Kessel's private papers.

The attendant put the card in the holder
and ran the roller over it. He handed the
copy to Karl to sign.

"
Danke
."
He signed with Herr Kessel's signature and waited for the receipt.
This authority was something to be savored. It could not last for
long, or his purchases would lead all the way back to the
Fatherland like footprints in the sand.

Herr Kessel had come to Italy to find fame
and glory, boasting that the bronze relic would give him power. Not
the head blown up at the television studio. Herr Kessel had
explained that one was a modern head, and it was annoying to think
that the old
Narr
had let him
risk his life for it. Somewhere out there was the genuine relic. It
had been so irresistible that Herr Kessel had rushed off to the
Colosseum to look for it -- and ended up with a knife in his
Bauch
.

The newspaper was all in Italian, and
beyond his grasp of the handful of words gleaned over the past few
days. Whatever the report said it took a lot of space to say it. He
showed a finger to the impatient driver behind him at the pump and
stayed put.
Testa
might or
might not be Head, but
Eusebius
had to be Eusebius.

He flung the paper onto the back seat and
let the clutch in, the high revs making the tires screech as the
tiny Fiat shot forward. The attendant refueling an old Lancia at
the head of the line had to jump back as he shouted abuse, but Karl
was beyond caring. He need not go back to Germany yet.

Power.

Not the power of the plastic card. If he
could get the relic he would no longer be looked down on as a
Düsseldorf thug, he would surely be given a position of command. He
swung the car round in the street, narrowly missing a young stud
showing his girlfriend just how rapidly his silly yellow sports car
could accelerate. Stupid driver.

With the relic he would have power all
right. Everyone in
Achtzehn Deutschland Reinigung
would thank him if he could return to Germany with
the head of Jesus Christ on the back seat. He could throw Herr
Kessel's credit card away. He could throw Herr Kessel's old
suitcase away at the same time.

The ADR would be so grateful they would
overlook his association with Herr Kessel. They might even offer
him a position marching at the front at rallies. The
Parteitage
-- torchlit rallies. Karl felt
excitement in his chest, but recognized that he was getting carried
away. If he wasn't careful he would be a joke figure like Herr
Kessel. That man had been nothing but a
Dummkopf
. He had even died a
Dummkopf
. It would take real style to get to a position of
trust in the ADR.

The
Priester
Sartini probably knew where to find the relic, and
fortunately he was still alive. He only had to find Sartini and
make him tell. The man would be a pushover.

"
My father had visions!"

The electrifying thought came suddenly. Here
he was, driving around in the city like a headless chicken, and all
the time some outside force seemed to be controlling his mind.

He had never really thought much about his
father's death in hospital. The nurses kept his father drugged.
Sedated, they called it. Herr Kessel had visited occasionally,
pushing himself on the family, eager to hear the foolish ramblings.
It was all so embarrassing at the time.

Papa knew that
Achtzehn Deutschland Reinigung
would soon become powerful.
Papa always believed the two Germanys would be united -- years
before it happened. He lived long enough to watch the Wall come
down. The future of that unity had been part of the visions.
Die Heimat
-- the Homeland -- the envy of
the world. And Papa had seen his son as the new leader. He had
pointed feebly at him in the hospital to say that he was... What?
The New Savior. And that idiot Herr Kessel thought the words were
meant for him!

He wanted the comfort of a sympathetic
voice. He felt in his pocket for Herr Kessel's list of telephone
numbers. Many of them belonged to covert members of the ADR and
could never be used. They would take extreme action to recover this
list and keep their names secret.

In a vacant parking slot he flicked through
the small notebook.

Some of the members
' names were familiar, but others had been
written in unrecognizable abbreviations. The trick would be knowing
which names were safe to contact for support, and which had to be
avoided. The name Phönix had a number with a dialing code for
England. Herr Kessel had mentioned Phönix, talking about him with a
certain amount of anxiety. Herr Kessel once said something about
a
Phönix
being a
dead bird that built its nest in a fireplace. He shrugged. It was
an odd name for a leader.

He jumped from the car and ran across the
street to the telephone. He could try giving Phönix a call. Perhaps
the man would be able to find out where Sartini went in the
daytime.

"
I want to speak to Phönix."

There was a hesitation at the far end of
the line. "Who are you?" The voice sounded restrained.

"
Karl Bretz. I'm a friend of Herr Manfred Kessel -- but he's
dead." He waited. Hearing no response he decided to continue. "I
found a list of phone numbers and I thought Phönix might be able to
help."

"
There is nobody called Phönix here. We already know that
Herr Kessel is dead. Were you with him in Rome?"