Colette was on her side. She could smell dye on the fabric and taste the dust. She sneezed a couple times. Her nose itched. She bent her head forward and rubbed it against the coarse fabric. She smelled cigarette smoke, and felt the sway of the truck and felt herself sliding. Heard the twangy chords of country music on the radio, and the sounds of traffic outside the van. They were moving at a steady speed now.
She tried to take her mind off what was happening, pictured herself skiing with her mother in Courmayeur, the Italian side of Mont Blanc, going down the mountain, skis buried in deep powder, leaning back, her mother slaloming down the mountain in front of her like a teenager.
Colette heard cars passing the van going in the opposite direction and then the whining sound of tires on asphalt. The van slowed and made a left turn and a right and came to a stop. The rear doors opened and she was lifted out and carried, felt the rug tilt up as they went up a couple steps, entered a room and put her down. Then she was spinning as they unrolled the rug. Colette, dizzy, trying to focus, seeing white walls and a brick fireplace. She was on the dusty wood floor, in a house, shades covering the windows. The two men were dark shapes in the dark room, the sour smell of sweat and cigarette smoke clinging to them. “Sprechen sie Deutsch?”
“No, we don’t sprechen sie no Deutsch,” the one wearing a red cap said. He spoke with a southern accent.
“What do you want?”
The one in the cap moved behind her, holding her biceps. The second one picked up her legs. “We’ll let you know,” he said.
“Ain’t suppose to talk at her,” the one in the cap said.
“Don’t worry about it, okay? Just pick her up.”
The one behind her had his wrists under her armpits now, hands holding her breasts.
“Well lookit her, will you? Don’t like nobody touching her sweater pups,” the one in the cap said.
“Pup’s ass, Squirrel, them’s full grown.”
Colette started to twist and kick.
“We got us a little cougar, ain’t we?” the man behind her said. “Full of piss and vinegar. I’m going to drop you on your head you don’t stop squirming.”
Colette went slack and they carried her along a hallway, through a door, down a narrow staircase into the cellar, tied her tight to a chair, arms behind her back, her legs bound to the chair legs. When her eyes adjusted she saw the furnace and hot-water tank on the other side of the empty room that had unpainted block walls and high windows on both sides covered with newsprint.
“Don’t y’all go nowhere,” the one wearing the cap said. The gamey smell of him made her sick. He touched her breasts, hands hard and rough. “I be back for some of your sweet, sweet cooze.”
Colette watched them walk up the stairs, already uncomfortable, arms and shoulders aching.
She must’ve dozed off. The sun had moved over the house and the light was brighter coming through the papered windows on the west side of the room. She heard footsteps on the stairs and saw the one in the cap appear and move toward her, grinning. Colette could smell him before he reached her, an odor so foul she had to breathe through her mouth. He walked around behind the chair, placed his hands on her shoulders and started to massage her.
“All them German girls stacked like you?”
He reached over and pulled the top of her blouse open. Two buttons popped off and hit the floor. Colette felt her pulse race. He dug down and pulled her breasts out of the cups of her bra, squeezing them with callused hands.
Colette screamed, hoping the other man would hear her and come down.
He put his greasy hand over her mouth, pawing her with hard thick fingers. She tried to bite him and he slapped her across the face with an open hand.
“What the hell you doin’ down there, Squirrel?” the other man said from the top of the stairs. Colette heard him come halfway down.
“Nothin’.”
“Get up here.”
Squirrel leaned in with his face close to hers. His breath had a bacterial reek that made her gag.
“I’ll be back,” he said and walked up the stairs.
Colette had fallen asleep and woke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The light in the windows was fading. She felt herself start to wind up again, thinking Squirrel was coming back for her. But it wasn’t him. A tall man in a black leather jacket appeared with a folded lawn chair. He opened it and sat a few feet from her.
“You are from Munich, I understand.”
Colette stared at him.
“Would you like to come upstairs, have something to eat and drink, use the toilet? You have been down here a long time. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know.” He paused for a beat and said, “Where is Ernst Hess?”
Harry pulled in the driveway, parked and went in the side door. He expected to see Colette in the kitchen, starting dinner. She was going to make sauerbraten, potato dumplings and red cabbage, an authentic German meal. He’d been thinking about it all day and he was hungry. Colette was a terrific cook, and that was another benefit of living with her. He threw his keys on the counter, hit the message button on the answering machine. Another one from Galina.
“Harry, you going to call me one of these days?”
No, he said to himself. Walked into the foyer, glanced in the den and moved into the living room. Someone was sitting in his leather chair, legs crossed on the ottoman. The man had dark shoulder-length hair and wore black jeans, a white shirt and a black leather jacket.
“I don’t think you’re a burglar,” Harry said, “or you’d be looking for the silver, so tell me what you’re doing in my house?”
“I stopped by your office. We could have handled it there, but you were too busy to see me,” he said with an accent that sounded like he was from Berlin.
“You buying or selling?”
“I am trading.”
“For what?” Although Harry had a pretty good idea. “Where is Ernst Hess?”
“I’d try his estate in Schleissheim or his apartment in Munich. Maybe start by talking to his family and business associates?
“I know he came here to see you.”
“Where’s Colette?”
“Safe for now. Tell me about Herr Hess.”
Harry pulled the Colt from under his shirt and aimed it at him. “I’ll tell you what. You want to trade, I’ll trade Colette for you. We can start there, see how it goes.”
“Put the gun away. You are not going to shoot me or you will never find her.”
The guy got up and came toward him. He was tall, six two, six three, and looked like he was in shape. Harry pulled the hammer back with his thumb. “First one’s going to blow out your knee cap. You better hope there isn’t a second one.”
That seemed to persuade him. The German froze.
“I’m going to give you another chance. Where’s Colette?”
“Not far from here.”
“Let’s go see how she’s doing.”
“I have to call, tell them we are coming.”
“How many are there?”
“Two.”
“We’re going to surprise them,” Harry said. “And if they’ve done anything to Colette, you’re the first one I’m going to shoot. Believe that if you believe anything. Take off your coat, throw it over here and turn around.” He did and Harry checked the two outside pockets of the jacket, found a parking receipt, and a pair of handcuffs. There was also a piece of notepaper that had an address on Crooks Road in Troy and a phone number. “This where they have Colette?”
In the other pocket he found car keys and a small semiautomatic. He ejected the magazine and put it in his pocket. The German had his back to Harry, looking over his shoulder. “Take off your clothes. I want to see what else you’ve got.” The German stripped down to his briefs and tossed everything on the floor at Harry’s feet. Harry picked up the man’s pants and checked the pockets, found the key to the handcuffs and his wallet. Opened it, name Albin Zeller from Munich on the driver’s license. “You a Nazi, too, Albin?” Harry said.