‘Please press one for “Yes” or two for “No”.’
He turned the drawer over. Only one document, a sheet of grey-green paper, had lodged inside. Marc picked it up in his trembling fingers. It was a statement from Constantin’s private bank.
‘We now come to a report made available to us by our esteemed colleague Ulrich Meyer. I’m sure it’ll exert an influence on your opinion.’
Bigger and bigger amounts had been withdrawn in recent days. The account was in the red and the last column bore the note ‘Frozen’.
Marc looked at the television.
At this moment there was no difference between his inner devastation and that of the room in which he was kneeling. Someone had extracted all his mental drawers and tipped them out too. He found it impossible to order his thoughts. Everything was interconnected – Sandra, Constantin, the baby – but none of it made sense. Neither Constantin’s debts nor the ravaging of his study. Nor Sandra’s voice, which had just uttered his name loud and clear.
62
Marc stared dazedly at the screen, which was now showing Sandra in close-up. Her hair was sweaty and dishevelled and her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. She looked drained and desperate, but even though he had never seen her in such a state before, it was unmistakably his wife.
There followed a quick cut to a lanky young reporter. He looked rather too immature to be making an investigative contribution to a TV news magazine, but his deep voice made up for his lack of gravitas.
‘Up to now, the Bleibtreu Clinic has been regarded as a reputable private hospital specializing in psychosomatic disorders. In the last few days, however, it has aroused controversy by conducting an unusual experiment. An experiment said to be taking place in the building just behind me, apparently without official authorization.’
The camera panned across the scaffolding in front of the clinic and homed in on the brass plate beside the entrance. The reporter continued in voice-over: ‘MME, the memory experiment – that’s the name of the programme whose participants are being brainwashed, ostensibly in order to eradicate their most distressing memories. It’s a tempting idea, of course. Fatal accidents, unhappy love affairs, personal tragedies – what if we could permanently forget all the things that prey on our minds?’
The reporter reappeared. Inquisitive passers-by came into shot as they turned to watch him walking along the street in front of the clinic. ‘But what if something goes wrong, as it did in the case of this patient whose records have been leaked to us?’
Marc gave a start. The television was showing a partially blacked-out document. The names of the doctors in attendance had been obliterated, but his own name appeared on nearly every line, and his photograph in the top right corner of the patient’s record sheet had not been blacked out.
Unimaginable though it seemed, Sandra confirmed the evidence of his eyes. ‘Yes, that’s my husband’s file,’ she said, sounding even more desperate than before. ‘Please quote his name and publish his picture. It may help him to recover his memory.’
The camera pulled back to reveal all of her. She was lying in a hospital bed, her body more bloated than ever.
Marc began to shed silent tears.
‘My husband underwent treatment there, I’ve no idea why, and now he can’t remember a thing.’
Another cut to a hand-held-camera shot of the Bleibtreu Clinic’s reception desk, in front of which Emma had so recently been overpowered. Suddenly a hand shot up and obscured the lens. A tussle ensued, and the camera’s view of the lobby went haywire.
‘Unfortunately, the clinic’s medical director declined to comment on these accusations. Our camera crew was forcibly ejected.’
The report wound up with a final shot of Sandra in hospital. ‘He can’t remember a thing,’ she repeated. ‘Not even me or the baby.’ Tears were streaming down her cheeks. ‘Good God, he doesn’t even know there are complications.’
Complications?
His wife was now addressing the camera direct. ‘Marc, if you’re watching this, I need you here with me. Please!’ she sobbed. ‘There’s something wrong with our baby. They’re going to have to deliver it prematurely.’
There the report ended. Back in the studio the two presenters resumed their appalling patter, grinning as if they’d just concluded a live broadcast of the Oktoberfest.
‘There, you can carry on voting now,’ the man said with a laugh. ‘Would you have yourself brainwashed into not remembering any nasty experiences?’
‘Or,’ the woman added, ‘will you say no, that’s not for me – I don’t want to wind up like Marc Lucas. His wife is giving birth this very afternoon, by the way. Her baby is due to be delivered any minute – by Caesarian section at the Senner Hospital – and it’s really tragic that the father won’t…’
Unable to bear it any longer, Marc stood up and put his fingers in his ears, yelling in an attempt to drown the presenters’ voices.
At that moment, down in the drive, a shot rang out.
63
Just as Marc got down there, his brother’s head slammed into a garden lamp post. He must somehow have managed to escape from the car and wrench the assailant’s gun from his grasp. It was lying half a metre away beside an ornamental shrub, and its owner was preparing to kick Benny in the kidneys as hard as he could.
Marc had no idea if it was the motorcyclist or another of Valka’s henchmen. He wasn’t wearing a balaclava and, from the back, he looked too bulky for a motocross enthusiast.
Benny had failed to get back on his feet and was trying to crawl out of the danger zone on all fours. To no avail. His assailant kicked him in the crotch from behind and he jack-knifed. Then the man bent over him.
Meanwhile, Marc had tiptoed around the car, which was now minus its windscreen. He was only two metres from the pump-action shotgun with which the thug must have shattered the perspex. He was about to make a dive for it when the beefy figure swung round.
‘Think I’m stupid?’ the man said with a laugh.
Marc raised his hands. Now that he had a full-face view of his brother’s would-be killer, he recognized him at once.
‘Hello, Valka.’
He was even fatter than he remembered.
‘Well, if it isn’t our worthy social worker! This is just like old times.’
With a supercilious grin, Valka checked the magazine of the pistol he was holding. Unlike the pump-action lying beside the bush, which needed reloading after the last shot, Benny’s automatic had plenty of rounds in it.
‘A shame you ran out on the band because of that slag of yours.’
‘Since when do you do your own dirty work?’ said Marc. Although his breath was steaming, he didn’t feel the cold wind blowing across from the lake. Fear was warming him from within.
‘Ever since your brother tried to fuck a fucker,’ Valka retorted, aiming a kick at Benny’s unprotected face every time he said the F-word. Strangely enough, Benny was shielding his stomach with his arms but not his head. Blood was oozing from his mouth and nose.
‘Ah, so you’re an Eddie Murphy fan,’ Marc said quickly, before another kick could land.
Valka stopped short. ‘What?’
‘That was a quote from a film: “Never try to fuck a fucker” – something like that. It comes from Trading Places, but never mind. You should be in the movies yourself, Eddy.’
Valka grinned. Then he looked down and addressed himself to the human bundle at his feet. ‘To think this smart aleck put you in the nuthouse!’
‘Get stuffed!’ croaked Benny, spitting out a front tooth.
From far away came the sound of a barge hooting as it made its way downstream to Glienicke Bridge. Marc looked round. The gardens in this area were so big the houses couldn’t be seen from the road. No one would come to their aid and the pump-gun in front of him was just a useless lump of wood and metal. Valka was three car-lengths away; he would empty an entire magazine into Marc’s chest before he’d covered half that distance.