‘Does it hurt terribly?’ she asked, looking at the blood-flecked handkerchief.
‘Sometimes.’ He nodded and the promise and the fear of the pain burned in his eyes. ‘They destroyed all the files. The only one who knows about your real identity is me.’ He smiled. No arrogance, just a sad, almost childish smile. ‘I knew you’d come. I knew you’d find me. I don’t want to die fighting for breath. I want the pain and the fear to go away. I don’t want to be afraid any more.’
Sylvie smiled and gently pushed back a strand of hair from his damp brow. She leaned close and whispered into his ear. ‘I know, Helmut. I know… It was nice to hear you call me Liane. No one has called me that in years. Now, no one ever will. Thank you for that, Helmut.’
As she spoke to him soothingly and without menace, Kittel felt something push upwards into his chest. He felt suddenly breathless in a way that he had not before. But there was little pain. He stared into her eyes, first in surprise but without fear, then with something that looked like gratitude.
‘It’s better this way, Helmut,’ she said, easing the long needle out from under his ribcage and allowing his heart to rupture. ‘No more pain. No more sweaty, frightened nights racked with coughing. I’ve taken away your pain for ever.’
Sylvie Achtenhagen checked that there was no one around and stood up swiftly, walking off towards the park exit. Behind her a thin middle-aged man sat on the bench, staring, unblinking, past the leafless trees, across to the double braced spires of the Martinikirche.