Effrem’s capture of the plane’s tail number tightened Jack’s focus on Germany and Switzerland, but it also raised more questions. According to Switzerland’s Federal Office of Civil Aviation website, the plane in question, a Swiss-made Pilatus PC-12 NG, registry HB-FXT, belonged to a private citizen, a Zurich resident named Alexander Bossard. Both Jack’s and Effrem’s initial research into plane and man turned up little aside from the fact that Alexander Bossard could afford a $4 million private jet and dispatch it across the Atlantic to rescue Möller from a defunct airstrip in rural Vermont. Was Bossard also the owner of the luxury apartment Eric Schrader used while staying in Zurich? It seemed a reasonable hunch.
Jack’s larger concern was for Belinda Hahn’s safety. Her father had intimated she was in jeopardy but hadn’t gone any further. With her father dead, a tied-up loose end, presumably, was she slated for the same fate? Or did he have it wrong? Though her e-mails to Peter had been those of a loving daughter, Jack couldn’t discount the possibility that she was a willing participant in all this — whatever “this” was. Whatever the truth, reaching out to Belinda Hahn was at the top of Jack’s to-do list.
Having vacationed in Munich, Jack returned to what he knew: Hotel München Palace in the city’s Bogenhausen Quarter, a long stone’s throw from the Luitpold Bridge and the Isar River, which split the city into east and west. Jack had spent hours walking the river trails and parks along both banks.
Thirty minutes after clearing customs and picking up their rental car, a Citroën, they were pulling to a stop outside the München Palace’s front doors. It was almost three a.m. The bellman was at their car door instantly, opening it before walking to the trunk and retrieving their luggage.
“Danke schön,” Jack said, handing him a tip.
“Es ist mir ein Vergnügen.”
Jack headed for the doors. He noticed Effrem wasn’t following but rather standing, staring at his cell phone. His face was drawn. Jack walked back to him. “What’s up?”
“Kaitlin Showalter died yesterday afternoon.”
This news changed Jack’s plans. Kaitlin Showalter was dead because she was on the wrong train at the wrong time and she had something Stephan Möller needed, a car. What might he or his compatriots do to Belinda Hahn, who was much more than a target of opportunity? Jack wondered if they were already too late.
He allowed himself and Effrem ninety minutes of sleep, then left the hotel and headed west on Prinzregentenstrasse in the predawn light. The city was already coming alive, with morning delivery trucks and buses making their stops. Despite sitting just thirty miles from the northern edge of the Bavarian Alps, Munich had had a wet and hot spring, and already the trees were well into bloom.
Staring out the window, Effrem said, “So much greenery. And it’s so tidy. I have been here a dozen times and I can count on one hand the pieces of trash I’ve seen on the street.”
“German efficiency.”
Once they were across the Isar River, Jack followed the car’s in-dash navigation system until they reached the Neuaubing district. Belinda’s apartment building, a five-floor quadplex, sat several blocks south of Bodenseestrasse, surrounded by boutique restaurants and pubs, all of which were closed and dark. It was not yet six o’clock. He wanted to catch Belinda before she left for the day.
Jack slowed as he passed the front door of her building. The lobby was dimly lit, but Jack could make out a two-door vestibule with an intercom system on the wall. He saw no doorman.
Jack debated whether he should simply ring Belinda’s buzzer and ask to see her. He quickly rejected the idea. What would he say? I was there when your father was murdered? If she had any sense — and based on her e-mails to Peter, she had plenty — she would call the police. Plan B.
Jack circled the block until he found an all-night grocery store, and left Effrem waiting in the car. He came back out with a brown paper bag overflowing with vegetables. Jack climbed in and handed the bag to Effrem, who said, “I don’t cook.”
“You should learn. Essential skill for a bachelor.”
“Who said I’m a bachelor?”
“You aren’t?”
Effrem hesitated. “Yeah, I am. But I’m offended you assumed so.”
Jack returned to Belinda’s apartment building and found a parking spot down the block. He shut off the headlights and the engine. “You see her front door?”
Effrem turned in his seat and looked out the Citroën’s rear window. “Yes.”
“Stay here and watch. You’ll know what to do when it’s time.”
“Oh, good,” Effrem replied. “Could you be a little more vague, please?”
“If you’d like.”
They sat for a few minutes, watching her door until Jack was satisfied they hadn’t been followed. Then he took the grocery bag from Effrem and climbed out. He walked down the block and took up station beneath a tree directly across from Belinda’s door. He kept his eyes fixed on the elevator at the far end of the lobby.
Jack’s ploy depended on two factors: timing and the kindness of strangers.
Ten minutes later the first of these factors fell into place. Through the vestibule doors he saw the down arrow above the elevator door light up.
He trotted across the street, opened the first vestibule door, then fumbled his grocery bag and let half the contents spill onto the floor. Jack knelt down and grabbed at a head of lettuce that was rolling away from him. Across the lobby, the elevator doors parted. He reached up and, using his own condo keys, tried to slip one of the keys into the inner door’s lock. He dropped the keys, reached for them, and let a trio of oranges tumble from the bag.
“Einen Augenblick. Warten Sie ab!” a female voice called. A moment. Wait.
Jack looked up to see a woman in her early thirties in jogging clothes, her blond hair in a ponytail, hurrying toward the door.
“Danke,” he called.
He scooted back so she could open the door, scattering the oranges as he did so.
“Lassen Sie mich Ihnen helfen!” the woman said. Let me help you.
She knelt down and began helping Jack collect his runaway fruit.
Jack gave her a sheepish smile and muttered, “Danke schön.” When they finished, he stood up, thanked her again, and stepped into the lobby as she held the door for him.
“Schönen Tag.” Have a good day.
“Dir auch.”
Jack waved as she jogged away.
A few moments later Effrem walked up to the door and Jack let him in. They headed toward the elevators. “Smooth, Jack,” Effrem noted.
“Who can’t sympathize with a bumbling idiot?”
They took the elevator to Belinda’s floor. Her apartment was at the end of the hall.
“Now what?” asked Effrem. “What’re you going to say?”
It was a good question. Jack’s grocery-bag ploy had gotten them inside, but he still faced the same problem as before: how to make contact with Belinda without spooking her. He’d already put the possibility she was involved in all this on a mental side burner. Chances were, unless she was a monster, she had nothing to do with her father’s death; whether this also applied to the attempt on Jack’s life was something else. One step at a time.
“I’m going to let her speak for herself,” he replied.
Jack handed Effrem the groceries, then pushed the buzzer button. Thirty seconds passed. Jack buzzed again. Now he heard movement from inside, feet stomping on wood floors. He caught a flicker of movement behind the peephole.