Tretjak (11 page)

‘You can challenge anything,' Lichtinger had once said, ‘except the laws of physics.'

‘That's what Newton said as well,' Tretjak had laughed, ‘and along came Einstein. And then Einstein said the same thing. But then Heisenberg shows up.'

Following a sudden impulse, Lichtinger got up, stepped behind the altar and took a book of matches and two big, white altar candles from a wooden box. He placed them on the altar and lit them. Two candles for the two young men they had been. And it was as if the white wax was taking over the warm, forgiving memories, as if they were only continuing to glow in their flames. The warmth had faded from Lichtinger's mind. He thought of where the boisterous games had eventually taken them. He thought of the old grey cardboard suitcase, which was lying amongst the junk in his attic, seemingly carelessly tossed there by mistake. Inside the suitcase was a steel strongbox with a number lock. And inside the strongbox was money, lots of money, in orderly bundles. What was sitting in the attic of the vicarage in Grisbach was 50 million dollars.

 

The road up to the little church in Oberronnberg had no tarmac surface. Even before noticing the sounds of a car engine, one could hear the wheels on the rough gravel. Joseph Lichtinger went to the entrance to the church, opened the door and stepped outside. He saw the charcoal-grey BMW approach. The sunlight made it impossible to recognise Tretjak's face behind the windscreen, but the headlights of the car flashed a greeting.

 

‘I once asked you a question,' Tretjak said, ‘a long time ago. I wanted to know what I would have to envisage when it is said that physicists are searching for a global formula. Do you remember?'

Lichtinger looked at him and only shook his head in a tired way. Tretjak was wearing blue jeans, black loafers and a lightweight black pullover. He was sitting on the altar step, on the floor, next to his open laptop. Lichtinger was sitting opposite him, in the first row of wooden benches. He had locked the door of the church behind them. The first thing Tretjak had done was to extinguish the two candles. ‘Permit me...'

One couldn't really say that he had indulged in small talk. He had started up his computer and had rapidly filled Lichtinger in on everything that had happened in the past few days. The message in the hotel in Sri Lanka, the murder of Kerkhoff, the curious occurrence with his cleaning lady, the floral missive and now the murder of Kufner. Tretjak had documented everything on his computer; even a picture of the racehorse Nu Pagadi had appeared on the screen. As in the past he was eager to be precise and did not leave out any detail – they sat there for over an hour. Just to complete the picture, as he put it, Tretjak had told him finally about his client Melanie Schwarz and the disgusting politician.

Tretjak rubbed his forehead. ‘Back then you replied to my question by saying that I should imagine a couple in love having dinner together, man and woman, a beautiful, candle-lit meal with champagne, fitting music from the CD player – maybe he had invited her and had cooked the food. Finally they end up in the bedroom, leaving the empty plates on the table.'

Tretjak looked at him again. ‘Now you remember. You said I should imagine scientists from another world, from a different part of the universe, where they know nothing about us humans. They investigate the dinner table, because that's the only thing they've got. They measure everything, analyse everything, every particle is sent to the lab to be checked: the remainder of the sauce, the lipstick on the glass, the traces of sweat on the napkins. They put forward their theses, then reject them. And then they go on analysing, even more precisely. At one point they realise that there were living beings present, beings who need to eat and drink – maybe they even realise that these beings had a language, because the music gave that away. You explained to me that the scientists found out a lot about what happened that evening. But there was one fundamental realisation missing, and only that realisation completed the picture.' Tretjak paused. It was very quiet now. ‘Only when they discover love, this phenomenon which is not made out of anything, only then will they fully comprehend us humans and what went on that evening. That's how you explained it to me back then. The global formula is that all encompassing idea – the physicists are not just looking for some numbers, but for the big idea that explains our world.'

Lichtinger nodded. Yes, he remembered. That's how he saw it back then. Today, however, he wasn't so sure anymore where they were, those theoretical physicists. He saw Tretjak get up, with arms akimbo, and look down at his laptop, which was standing on the stone step in front of him. ‘I don't know what's happening here, Joseph. I am standing in front of it like your extra terrestrials in front of the dinner table.'

Lichtinger thought of the name somebody had supposedly given Tretjak. ‘The Fixer is at a complete loss?'

Tretjak looked up. ‘And the man of God? Does he know what to do?'

Lichtinger had now got up as well. ‘You are not really at a loss, Gabriel, are you? You know exactly what is happening here. Nu Pagadi. A bill is being presented, in Russian. Why did you come? Do you finally want to tell me exactly what happened back then? What exactly you...' he stressed this word, repeated it, ‘what
exactly
you did back then?'

‘Do you want to hear my confession, Father? Are you kidding?' Tretjak's voice turned cold. ‘You know exactly what happened back then. You were there, you know what we did and what we wanted to do.' He looked up to the ceiling. ‘And your Almighty knows it as well.'

‘I only know your version of the story, don't forget that,' Lichtinger said. ‘Your version of the story and the money, that was all you served up to me. And if your version is the truth then what's happening right now shouldn't be puzzling. Somebody wants their money back. And that somebody is pretty angry that you got it off him back then.'

‘Somebody...' Tretjak shook his head. ‘That somebody doesn't exist anymore.' He rummaged around in his trouser pockets. ‘Do you have a toilet here?' he asked.

Lichtinger immediately noticed the South Tyrolean accent and he almost smiled. ‘No,' he said, ‘I'm sorry.'

‘And water?'

‘We've got water. Just behind the screen you'll find the tap.'

Tretjak took a few steps, moved the screen away, opened the tap over the little basin and didn't even try to conceal that he was taking some pills.

‘Aren't you afraid?' he asked when he turned around.

‘Fear... No, not anymore. Of all the emotions inside me connected to that effing suitcase, there is only one left over now: I am ashamed.'

‘Oh, yes,' said Tretjak, ‘Saint Joseph.'

‘Maybe nobody knows about me...'

‘I want to tell you something,' Tretjak interrupted him, ‘whoever is behind this knows a hell of a lot, he knows my life inside out, he knows much too much. We can therefore assume that he also knows about you.'

‘Isn't that your doctrine,' said Lichtinger. ‘Know everything about the key person. Maybe you said so to these guys back then.' Lichtinger remembered how Tretjak had drawn diagrams on pieces of paper, like spider webs. In the middle was the most important person. Now he asked himself whether Tretjak had mapped out such a diagram for him, his former friend. How much did Tretjak know about him? Everything? This thought unnerved him.

Lichtinger stepped in front of the altar, placed the two candles back in the wooden box and moved the screen back in front of the basin. He saw that Tretjak had closed his laptop. They walked along the aisle in the direction of the exit, stopped halfway and sat down next to each other in one of the pews.

‘I hear of your great success putting on “Science-Slams”,' Tretjak said. ‘What's that all about?'

‘We always hold them in big barns or toolsheds,' Lichtinger said. ‘The stage is normally a tractor-trailer. And then people stand up and explain a scientific topic. Everybody has five minutes and when their time is up the audience screams “Stop!” or “Continue!” depending how good that particular performer is. And at the end of the evening there is a vote for who is the winner.'

‘What topics?' asked Tretjak.

‘Totally open, marine biology, oral surgery, research into aggression, all is possible. Pupils perform, also students, we even had two real professors. It's fun, you should come.'

Tretjak nodded and smiled. And if he hasn't changed completely, Pastor Lichtinger thought, then this thought really appealed to him, at least in that very moment.

 

Munich, East Station, 9pm

Dimitri Steiner stood next to his motorcycle and pondered, maybe for the hundredth time, whether he should get himself a windscreen. The advantages were clear: when it rained one stayed dry behind it, and also on the motorway at higher speed, it promised a more relaxed ride. On the other hand on hotter days one missed the cooling airstream, and above all Dimitri was a great believer in the pure motorcycle experience. Machines with sound systems, GPS, seat or handle heating were not for him, he called them ‘fitted kitchens'. Dimitri looked at his rear-view mirrors. They were drop-shaped, and he thought about exchanging them for circular ones, the ones he had spotted in the Harley-Davidson catalogue a while ago.

Dimitri Steiner was completely happy when he pondered these kind of questions. He could spend hours doing just that, inspecting every detail of his motorcycle: should he replace all the screws with chrome ones? Attach a small oil pressure metre down near the engine block? Pad the seat a little more softly? He didn't have to account to anybody for these mind games, they could be interrupted at any time, they didn't have to go anywhere, and above all: he didn't ever have to do anything about them, there were no consequences for either himself or somebody else. Ever since Dimitri Steiner had renounced his profession, had retired so to speak, these harmless mind games were his hobby.

It was just after nine o'clock in the evening. Steiner was standing with his motorcycle at Munich's East Station at the loading ramp for the motorail train to Hamburg. He stood there in amongst other riders who had all attached a white piece of paper with sticky tape to the tanks of their machines: on it was written,
Hamburg-Altona
. Dimitri and his motorcycle stood out in the crowd. His Harley Roadking was sprayed in two colours, an antique off-white and a sunny yellow. Dimitri's helmet, which was hanging on the handlebar, was also white, and he himself was wearing a bright red, massive leather jacket. He was a strangely square man, a bit too short, with a bit of a belly, but quite a broad, muscular back for a man in his late fifties. His icy-grey hair was cropped in a crew cut, and his face was tanned after his 14-day tour through the Alps. Dimitri Steiner knew that he looked funny somehow, and that would be reflected in the face of the inspector whom he had been told to meet.

It had been four years since he had last received a message from his former life. And then one had arrived today in the form of a telephone call, not a long one, a rather clipped one, a bit too short for his taste. The man on the other end was obviously still young and did not quite appreciate who he was dealing with. Even without the lecture, Dimitri would have known what information he could reveal to the police inspector – and what he could not. He had taken the call standing in the parking lot outside the motorway restaurant at the Zirler Berg. Afterwards he had gone inside and ordered himself a large portion of warm apple strudel with vanilla ice cream and extra cream. He loved this apple strudel that you could find everywhere around here.

The boarding was beginning, and the motorcycles were first up. One had to mind one's head when driving into the wagons as the steel girders supporting the levels above hung deep. Dimitri knew that, he had taken the motorail many times before. He was well practised in moving his Roadking into the position assigned to him by the guys in the orange vests. He turned the alarm to transport mode, took his black leather bag from the carrier – and threw it on the bed in his compartment a short while later. Dimitri Steiner travelled the most luxurious way when he took the motorail, a single bunk compartment with private shower and toilet. A small bottle of red wine already stood next to the bed. Tomorrow morning, an hour before his arrival, he would be served breakfast here. He hung up his leather jacket, took off his tee-shirt and took a fresh, red and blue checkered shirt from his bag.

 

He had only had got along well with policemen all his life. No matter what country, policemen were sensible, nice guys. Clueless about what really went on, but you had no problems with them. Inspector Maler, who was already expecting him in the dining car, was cast in that same mould. Maler was wearing a pale beige shirt, a grey jacket and had grey skin. Dimitri was reminded of his childhood in Rostow, a grey city of a million-odd grey inhabitants in the middle of nowhere in the former Soviet Union. There everything had been as colourless as the inspector; the houses, the streets, the people. They had three quarters of an hour to talk, then the inspector would have to get off and the train would leave the station. Dimitri would have forgotten the man before the train reached its ultimate travelling speed.

‘I have to confess, Mr Steiner,' Maler opened the conversation, ‘that I am at a loss as to what our meeting is all about. Maybe you can enlighten me.' He was sitting in front of an alcohol-free beer and a black coffee. Dimitri had ordered a yeast beer. ‘I am investigating a murder, two as a matter of fact,' Maler continued. ‘In these cases there is a person of interest on whom I require additional information. Gabriel Tretjak. Our police computer supplies almost as much data as the telephone book. But today I received a somewhat strange call from the Federal Criminal Police Office.' He looked at Dimitri. ‘I was told that a certain Dieter Steiner could assist me in my investigations. A meeting had already been set up. Not much more was revealed by that colleague, who talked about a discreet affair, something which lay outside the normal police remit. The information which you could give me would be the only information I would get on this matter.' Maler reached for his cup and waited for the man sitting opposite to say something.