Across the wide expanse of the Tiergarten, ostensibly taking photographs of the park with a telephoto lens, the man with the watch cap covering a near-bald head focused his attention on the commotion toward the Spree River. He clicked a few digital shots, and then looked at the back LCD screen to verify his work. His main subject, of course, was the two Polizei officers investigating the death of the men around Berlin. When he got the shots he desired, he moved the camera in another direction and pretended to shoot pictures of other people, those standing around watching the action. He wasn’t stupid enough to be caught by the Polizei cameras. Did they really think they could catch him that way?
He had monitored the Polizei channels and heard of the discovery of another body floating in the river; he knew it had to be his work. And he just had to see the reaction of this new find of theirs. Based on the radio traffic alone, he was driving the local Polizei crazy with these deaths. He only wished he could be a tiny hummingbird fluttering over the man in charge of the investigation to hear just how frustrated he’d become.
An inadvertent smile crossed his face. He had to get closer. Get a better look at his work. No. That was crazy. They could catch him in one of their photos. And it wasn’t important. These deaths were insignificant. Covering tracks, he knew. Nothing more. But he had to make it look like it was much worse than it was, so it would keep the Polizei busy. Two birds, one stone.
His eyes shifted back toward the water’s edge as a medical crew hoisted the bloated corpse from the Spree and set it onto the grass at the foot of the Polizei investigator. He knew everything there was to know about this chief homicide officer — from his Catholic upbringing in northern Germany, to his rise through the ranks to run a successful office in Munich, and to his proclivity for young prostitutes. Know thy enemy, he mused, and you shall know thyself. Was that from Vogler’s bible? Who knows. He even knew the great inspector was trying to quit his cigarettes, having purchased boxes of nicotine gum and enough patches for his entire Berlin Polizei force.
Satisfied he had what he needed, confirmation of his work, he wandered back to his Audi A3, far from the view of any cameras, and got behind the wheel. Sitting there for a moment, he contemplated his next move. First, he needed to keep the pressure on that American pig. Now that he was out of the hospital, he could finish what he started. He should’ve killed him in the hospital, but that would have been poor form. A man shouldn’t die as he lay in bed half dead. What kind of pleasure could be found in that? No, he was nothing if not patient.
He turned over the engine, glanced one more time across the park at the crime scene, and slowly pulled out toward the east side of Berlin.
4
Jake had been out of the hospital for two weeks now, living in his old second-floor apartment across from the Inn River with a view of the Alps to the south. He had rented the place to a man who had become somewhat of a local Innsbruck celebrity — a model whose remarkably handsome face was plastered all over Tirol on everything from billboards, which were rare in Austria, to the sides of buses — hawking products and becoming the face of the area ski scene. Every woman wanted him, but he played for the other team. With a quick phone call Jake had found out his old Polizei buddy, Franz Martini, had laid it out for the man quite clearly. He would have to move out of the apartment or something bad might happen to that pretty face of his. It wasn’t a threat, Jake had later explained to the man, simply a fact of life or death. Jake didn’t want the guy caught in any crossfire. He’d been a great tenant for over two years, and, as Jake told him, it was time for the man to buy his own place. Regardless, the tenant had made a positive impact on Jake’s old place, stereotypically transforming bland white walls to various shades of aqua marine, yellows and reds. He would come back for the dozens of plants, so Jake would have to try to keep them alive while he did the same for himself.
The first full day in his old place Jake went by taxi to a local bike shop and purchased a high-end bicycle — a touring bike for eventual rides in the country. Franz had made sure his mountain bike with front and rear suspension had been shipped to his apartment from Vienna. But Jake knew he’d have to wait to go off-road for a while. There was no way his knee could handle that pounding.
For the rehab of his left knee and his overall musculature, he propped the road bike onto a stationary wheel, riding at least a dozen kilometers a day and building up to thirty kilometers this morning. While he rode the stationary bike, he read through the digital files Franz Martini provided him of the investigation of Anna’s murder to date, finding no great clue as to who wanted him dead. Disturbing, yes, but not entirely unexpected. The killers were professionals. Their only flaw had been not finishing the job. Not killing Jake. One of the shooters had gotten away, but Jake wasn’t overly concerned with finding him, unless that man could lead Jake to the person who had ordered the hit. Strangely enough, Jake didn’t harbor too much animosity toward a hired shooter. He was only doing a job which he or she was uniquely qualified to perform.
If Jake was smart he’d simply lay low until he could solve this case, a case which he was nearly his own client. Sure Franz gave him a retainer of sorts with the Glock, which he carried night and day, and which even hung from a holster strapped to the handlebars of his bike while he rode, but Franz was only trying to make his continued stay in Austria legal. He needed to continue to work to maintain his visa there. He had friends in high places within the Austrian government, yet he was sure that those friendships might be somewhat strained following a few shootings in the past couple of years. Jake also knew that Franz was probably the reason he still had a carry permit in Austria — not that not having one would deter Jake anyway — without a weapon he wasn’t only a sitting duck, he was a dead one.
But Jake didn’t depend only on the kindness of Franz for his safety. He’d gone to his local bank branch and retrieved a few items from his safe deposit box, including one of his stashed handguns — a Beretta PX4 Storm also in .40 cal, with two extra magazines. No need to keep two different calibers. He also picked up a few passports, two from the U.S., one from Canada, and one each from Germany and Austria. All with different identities and photographs. Old habits.
His only ventures other than the bike shop, the bank, and the grocery store was spending a few hours shooting his two handguns at an indoor range. Like riding the bike, he hadn’t lost his skill at punching holes in paper. He did have to modify his stance somewhat with the new knee.
Riding the stationary bike, he had plenty of time to think about his life — what he had and what he had lost. Was he the man he always thought he would become? If so, he wasn’t sure he liked himself too much right now. At this time, forgiveness was not a huge part of his vocabulary.
Jake finished his bike ride and slowly dismounted, his legs tired and nearly collapsing beneath him as he stood for a moment to catch his balance on his special bike shoes. He’d given up the cane for the past couple of days and hopefully wouldn’t need it again. Although used with his left hand to take pressure from his left knee, he felt vulnerable with the cane and not as quick to pull his gun if needed.
He lowered himself into a leather chair and glanced at his 24-inch LCD monitor, which picked up multiple wireless cameras positioned outside the apartment, front and back, and in the front foyer where he could watch those from the first and third floors come and go. He’d also placed a number of motion detectors that would alarm him any time someone came in view of a camera. The one on the sidewalk out front was annoying, going off anytime someone passed by walking a dog or going to a car. But if Jake really wanted to play it safe, he’d go to America or South America and pay cash for everything. There were hundreds of great trout streams in Patagonia he hadn’t wet a fly in yet. Instead, he’d taken up residence in his old place and bought food with a visa in his own name. He wasn’t hiding. He was waiting.