“Wer ist das?” a woman’s voice said through the door.
Jack took a breath, then said, “Fräulein Hahn?”
“Ja? Wer ist das?”
“Sprechen Sie Englisch?”
A long pause. “I speak English.”
“Miss Hahn, I live in Alexandria, not far from your father’s house. I have something of his. May I slide it under the door?”
Another long pause. “Yes, go ahead.”
From his jacket pocket Jack took one of the sudoku books he’d found in Peter Hahn’s house. Like all of the others, this one’s inside cover bore an inscription: “To your good brain health. Love, Belinda.”
Jack slid it under the door and waited.
“I am calling the police,” she said finally.
“Please, don’t,” he replied. Both feet, Jack. Dive in. “I was there. I saw what happened to him. I want to help.”
“Who’s that with you?”
“A friend. Listen, dial the police, dial 110, but keep your finger on the zero. If we do something you don’t like, make the call.”
“I have pepper spray.”
“Good. Go get it. Belinda, listen: I know the name of the man who killed your father. I came to help.”
After a long thirty seconds, the dead bolt on the door clicked open.
21
Belinda hadn’t been bluffing, Jack noted as they stepped through the door. Belinda did have pepper spray, not one of the pocket models, but rather a soda can — size version designed for bears. She stood at the end of the hallway, pointing the nozzle at them with one hand while clutching her cell phone in the other. Lying at her feet was the sudoku book.
“Is that thing real?” Effrem murmured to Jack. “Do they make Mace that big?”
“Yep. And it’s more powerful than regular pepper spray.”
Over the years Jack had been stabbed, slashed, beaten, and doused with OC, or pepper spray. He would take the first three over the fourth any day. Pain was manageable. OC was pure, unmitigated misery so intense it made time stand still. The memory of it churned his stomach.
“Stop right there,” Belinda ordered.
Peter Hahn’s daughter was barely five feet tall, petite, with short dark hair and rectangular-shaped glasses. She wore a pair of gray sweatpants and a red Washington Wizards T-shirt.
“You, with the mop on your head!” she barked. “Close the door and lock it.”
Effrem touched his index finger to his chest. “Me?”
“Yes, you! Do it or I’ll give you a shower!”
Jack believed her. Peter Hahn hadn’t raised a pushover. Jack said to Effrem, “Move very slowly.”
With his free hand held above his head, Effrem shut and locked the door.
“What’s your name?” Belinda demanded.
“I’m Jack. This is Effrem.”
“Do you have guns?”
“No.”
“Show me. Lift your jackets and turn in a circle.” They both did so. She asked, “What happened to my father?”
In the hallway Jack had rehearsed a gentle answer to this question, but Belinda Hahn was tough. And angry. She deserved an unvarnished answer. “He was shot. Once in the stomach, once in the head.”
“Where in the head? I know, so don’t lie. The police told me.”
“The right eye,” Jack replied.
Belinda’s hand on the OC canister wavered slightly, then steadied.
Jack said, “Effrem and I have been following the man who shot your father. His name is Stephan Möller. Does that name mean anything to you?”
Belinda ignored him. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“Möller was working with a man named Schrader. Schrader tried to kill me, and your father had been helping him.”
“You’re lying! My father would never—”
“I think he helped Schrader as little as he could, and even then he didn’t want to. He had a chance to kill me twice and didn’t do it. Belinda, men like Möller and Schrader don’t worry much about police. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Maybe.”
Interesting answer. “And I think he was trying to protect you. Is that possible?”
“Possible,” she replied.
Effrem asked, “In what way?”
Belinda jerked the OC canister toward him. “Flip that light switch beside you.”
Effrem did so and the overhead hallway light came on.
Canister extended, Belinda took three steps forward, raised her cell phone, and took a picture of Jack and Effrem’s faces. She said, “Now you’re in my cloud. And my Photobucket account. The police will check it, you know, if something happens to me. They have face-scanning technology now, too.”
“We’d be lucky to make it out of the city,” Jack replied. “Belinda, if we meant you harm, we wouldn’t have knocked on your door. You can either trust us or tell us to leave. Either way, you’re in charge.”
After a few moments Belinda lowered the OC canister. “You want coffee?”
Belinda’s apartment was small, with a kitchen/nook, sitting room, and one bedroom. It was tidy, the decor all blond wood and stainless steel. Her tiny balcony was a hanging forest of ferns so thick Jack could barely see the building across the street.
Belinda finished making the coffee and they sat down at the nook table. Beside her Belinda placed her cell phone and her father’s sudoku book. The OC canister she kept in her lap. “Trust but verify,” she told them.
“Wise,” said Effrem.
“Jack, where did you get this book?”
“After your father died I went to his house.”
“You broke into his house.”
“Guilty. I found the sudoku books, your e-mails to him, and your address.”
“You said you thought my dad was trying to protect me. Why?”
Jack recounted his backyard confrontation with Peter. Belinda asked, “Those were his words, ‘I don’t know if I’ve done enough to save her,’ and ‘They’d never made the threat plain’?”
“Verbatim. Who was he talking about?”
“I can’t be sure.”
Effrem replied, “But you have a hunch.”
Belinda took a sip of coffee, then absently spun her cell phone on the table, staring at it for a few seconds before answering Effrem’s question. “Jürgen Rostock. He’s my boss.”
Jack knew the name. Jürgen Rostock was the CEO of Rostock Security Group. RSG specialized in personal and site protection — essentially, bodyguards to the rich and famous, and physical security for vulnerable business facilities. Across Europe RSG was so well regarded that it no longer sought clients; clients sought RSG, and Rostock took on only the most important VIPs.
As Hugo Allemand was in France, Jürgen Rostock was a celebrity in Germany, a dairy farmer who’d risen through the ranks of the Heer to Generalleutnant, and eventually to inspector general of the Bundeswehr. After retiring in 2004, Rostock had served under two chancellors as minister of defense, then left public service and started RSG. Twice since then Rostock had been urged to run for president of Germany, and twice he had declined. He was a fixture on the European social scene, contributing to a plethora of charities, as well as sitting on the board of half a dozen foundations whose mandates ranged from providing potable water for rural African villages to exposing child labor abuses in Indonesia.
Apparently Effrem knew the name as well. “Jack, one of Rostock’s postings was commander of Division Schnelle Kräfte — the Rapid Forces Division. Kommando Spezialkräfte falls under its command.”
Eric Schrader was former KSK, Jack reminded himself.