“I'm not so sure. Your only lead up to now is that Wendt had something to do with this mysterious attack that is being covered up. If there's nothing mysterious or covered up, you can kiss your lead good-bye.” He sat up straight, held his palm before his mouth, and blew the lead away.
“And you're not concerned about the long list of felonies?” “Don't worry, I'm going to set up our little excursion to the Americans so that nothing can go wrong.” He explained where he was going to get hold of the uniforms, how he would manufacture our laminated IDs, and who would instruct him about the relevant names and ranks.
He saw that I was still not satisfied. “What is it? Are you afraid the Americans will call our departments to check up on us? We're not supposed to have a regular central office, that's the whole gist of it. The foolish husband who wants to have some fun on the side will tell his wife that he has business trips, meetings, and appointments with colleagues—all of which he has, but not to the extent he pretends he does. This course of action inevitably runs aground. The clever husband, on the other hand, invents new friends and associates and new activities. Where nothing exists, nothing can run aground. The Americans won't call the president of Germany. As far as they know you're working for him, while I'm one of his representatives, and I will invent my department in a way that though it doesn't exist, it very well could. I still haven't convinced you? Let's leave it for now—I'll get everything ready, and give you a call in a couple of days.”
14
Not a particularly good impression
He called me two mornings later. “I'll drop by at nine. The whole thing won't take more than two hours. I'll bring your ID along—wear a dark suit.”
“What happened to all the careful preparations? You think that in a single day you can—”
He laughed. “I won't lie to you. I've been working on this for ages. The reason I asked you two days ago was because by then I was sure I could pull the whole thing off. And I only know if I can pull something off once the preparations are under way.”
“How do you know I'll play along?”
“You will play along? Great! I've already called and announced our arrival.”
“You did what?”
“I'm not pressuring you, am I? It's up to you. If you don't want to do it, that's fine with me. See you later.”
I put on my dark blue suit and slipped my reading glasses into my pocket. When I let them slide halfway down my nose and peer over the top, I look like an elder statesman. I wasn't going along only because I wanted to find out what was happening at the American depot. I also felt that if I didn't go I'd be letting Peschkalek down.
We walked to the train station. His uniform was too tight, but he assured me that German army uniforms were notoriously bad fits. “As I said, we're from the president's office. You will make a few general statements, and I'll discuss the details. You don't have to say more than that the firemen and guards are to be awarded medals for their service on January sixth. Should your English fail you, I'll jump in.”
From the station we headed to Vogelstang in a taxi, as if we had just come on the train from Bonn. Peschkalek took two laminated, credit card-sized ID tags out of his jacket pocket and clipped one on his lapel and one on mine. They looked good. I liked the color photo of me; Peschkalek had taken it at Wendt's funeral.
Despite his assurances, I was worried about having to chatter away in English. I called to mind the sixties, when jokes about old President Lübke's English bloopers were all the rage. More often than not I didn't understand them, a fact I would hide from others with a knowing chuckle, but I couldn't hide from myself that I didn't know any English worth mentioning. Could this be why I remember Lübke so warmly? No, I have a soft spot for all politicians once they're out of office: for our singing President Scheel, our hiking President Carstens, and I even have a soft spot for grim Gromyko.
“Sir!” The soldier at the gate stood to attention in his white cap and belt.
Peschkalek greeted him with military abruptness, and I raised my hand to an imaginary cap. Peschkalek explained that we had an appointment with the chief of the fire brigade. The soldier put through a call, an open jeep pulled up, and we got in. I sat next to the driver and rested my foot outside, which is the thing to do when sitting in a jeep, if American war movies are anything to go by. We drove along a path bordered by lawns and trees. A squad of trotting women soldiers in bobbing T-shirts came toward us. In the distance, a white wooden building came into view, with fire trucks parked outside its large doors. The fire trucks were not red and gold, the way I had imagined them, but the same green as everything else.
The driver walked us up an outside staircase to the office floor above the garages. A dapper officer greeted us, and Peschkalek did the honors. My ears didn't fail me: Peschkalek introduced me as Under-Secretary Dr. Self! We sat down at a round table and were served watery coffee. The large window looked out onto some trees. Behind the desk was an American flag, and President Bush stared down at me from the wall.
“Dr. Self?” The officer looked at me questioningly.
I launched into an English sentence: “Our president wants place an order on the brave men of the night of sixth Januar.”
The officer continued to look at me questioningly. Peschkalek jumped in. He spoke of Viernheim and the terrible threat of terrorism. The German president did not want to place an order, but to give the men a medal. Peschkalek also talked about documents, a speech, and a reception. I didn't understand why the men should have to go to a reception desk to get their medals, but then it dawned on me that he might be talking about a reception as in a soirée. I spoke up, suggesting that a pathetic speech should be given; after all, soldiers always like a bit of pathos, but that didn't seem to go down too well either. The word “sensitive” kept cropping up—were American soldiers worried about our rough German ways? “Make you no sorrows,” I quickly said, but before I could calm the officer's fears about German brusque-ness, Peschkalek cut in and asked him for a list of names that would go on the medals. He also asked if what the individuals had done should be recognized uniformly, or whether the actions of different men warranted first-and second-grade medals.
The officer sat down at his desk, took a folder from a pile, opened it, and began leafing through it. I leaned over to Peschkalek: “Don't lay it on too thick.” As far as I was concerned, since we'd talked about the attack of January 6 and the officer had not contradicted us our mission was accomplished. Peschkalek leaned over to me. He grabbed the leg of my chair and pulled it away, and the chair and I went crashing to the floor. I banged my head and elbow. My elbow ached, my head buzzed. I didn't manage to get up right away.
In an instant the officer was at my side, and helped me first of all to a sitting position, then onto my knees, and finally back onto the chair, which he had set upright again. Peschkalek emitted regretful and worried sounds. Lucky for him he didn't touch me, otherwise I'd have tackled him, wrung his neck, cut him into tiny pieces, and fed him to the birds.
But he wasn't afraid of me. He seized my left arm and marshaled the officer to my right, and both of them helped me to the door and down the stairs. Peschkalek talked and talked. Downstairs the jeep was waiting for us and all three of us got in the back, with me in the middle. As Peschkalek helped me out of the jeep at the main gate, I managed to ram my healthy elbow into his solar plexus. That winded him, but he quickly got his breath back and continued talking at the officer.
The taxi came. The officer was sorry, Peschkalek was sorry, I was sorry. “But we must make us on the socks,” I said, and the officer again looked at me oddly. The soldier with the white cap and belt held the door open for us, we got in, and the soldier slammed the door shut. I rolled down the window to say a few last words, but the officer and the soldier had turned away.
“That's what happens when you have an army with nothing to do,” I thought I heard the officer say to the soldier, and if I had heard right, our visit had not made a particularly g
ood impression.
15
Black on white
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Please!” he hissed. “Wait till we're out of here!” He had told the taxi driver to head for the train station. He asked him to hurry so we wouldn't miss the 12:11 train. He also asked him all kinds of questions: How was the local Lorenz Standard Electric Company doing, and Brown, Boveri & Co., since when did Mannheim have streetcars, what was playing at the National Theater, was there actually any water in the Water Tower, and he wove into the conversation that this was our first time in Mannheim and that we needed to get back to Bonn on time. I felt he was laying it on a bit thick, that all this was unnecessary and embarrassing. I leaned my buzzing head in my hands, looked out the window, and hoped to God that the driver wouldn't recognize me if he ever picked me up again.
Peschkalek and I went into the train station through the main entrance and out again through a side door on the left. “Take off your jacket. The Heinrich-von-Stephan Strasse is visible from the taxi stand.”
Here, too, I played along. When we were safely out of view, Peschkalek flipped out. “I got my hands on it!” he shouted. “I got my hands on it!” He threw his jacket on the ground and triumphantly held up the binder. In the commotion after my fall he had snatched it from the fire chief's desk and hidden it in his jacket. He grabbed me by the arms and shook me. “Self! Cheer up! You were great—we were great! Here's the proof, and nobody can say there was no attack!”
I freed myself from his grip. “You don't even know what's in that binder!”
“Well, let's take a look. How about grabbing a bite somewhere nice and elegant. We have something to celebrate, and I owe you one. You know, I thought of telling you what I was thinking of doing, but then you'd have tensed up and really ended up hurting yourself. Plus, you'd never have been as convincing as you were!”
I was in no mood to have lunch with him. Nor was he too pleased that I wanted to make myself a photocopy of the file at the nearest copy center. He tried to forestall it, but in the end couldn't refuse. When my copy was ready we said a cool good-bye.
I went home and took two aspirin. Turbo was out roaming the rooftops. In the refrigerator there were eggs, Black Forest ham, tuna, cream, and butter, and in the freezer a package of spinach. I made a béarnaise sauce, warmed the spinach, poached two eggs, and let the ham sizzle for a bit. I placed the can of tuna in hot water. Turbo enjoys his tuna just as much when it's ice cold, but I can't believe it's good for him. I served lunch on the balcony.
Over a cup of coffee I began going through the American file with the help of a dictionary. When the fence had been cut, the alarm had gone off in the guardhouse. There had been fog, and it took the guards a while to locate the hole. The fog also made a systematic search of the terrain difficult. At one point they thought they had found the intruders. They had called out to them and then fired, both actions specified by regulation 937 LC 01/02. Then came the first explosion, and when they reached the area there was another, the result of which was that one intruder and one guard were killed, and a second intruder was injured and taken into custody. The second explosion had ignited stored chemicals. The fire brigade and the ambulance had been called in and appeared promptly. The fire was extinguished within minutes. No toxic substances were released. There was also a reference to two further reports: numbers 1223.91 CHEM 07 and 7236.90 MED 08. Along with report number 1223.91 CHEM 07, there was a further reference to suggestions for future storage of the chemicals. There had been no authorization at any time for the involvement of the German police, who had appeared at the entrance of the depot. A brief report furnished by the fire brigade was enclosed. The reports identified the fire brigade and guard patrol units, and named the two dead men and the arrested man: Ray Sachs, Giselher Berger, Bertram Mohnhoff. The respective superiors had signed the reports.
Now I had it in black and white. I could imagine Pesch-kalek cursing up a storm, trying to figure out how to get his hands on those other two reports, 1223.91 CHEM 07 and 7236.90 MED 08. Perhaps he'd return to the depot as a member of a cleaning detail? Or disguised as an American army chaplain? I, for one, had no intention of heading out with Peschkalek, dressed as Donald Duck and Daisy, to entertain the poor boys of the chemical and medical divisions.
16
Mänch, Eiger, Jungfrau
The afternoon was still young. I drove down the autobahn, realized when I got to the Waldorf junction that I'd gone too far, turned off at the next exit, and meandered back through villages I'd never been through before. When I reached the psychiatric hospital and drove up the winding road leading to the old building, I saw it shining in the distance. The scaffolding had been removed, and the building was covered in fresh yellow paint.
I found the temporary director ensconced in Eberlein's office. “What I have to say,” he told me, “I shall say to the police and to the Public Prosecutor's Office.” He let there be no doubt that I was not welcome.
“When will Professor Eberlein be back?”
“I don't know if he will return, or when. Do you have his address on Dilsberg Mountain? He lives on the Untere Strasse—my secretary will give you the number.” He bade me good day. He hadn't even asked me to sit down, and I was standing before his desk like a corporal before an officer. I walked to the door, and through an intercom he ordered hissecretary to give me one of Eberlein's remaining business cards. I had barely crossed the threshold when I found her standing at attention with a little envelope in her hand. Would the janitor salute as I walked past? No, he was reading a tabloid and only looked up for an instant.
I headed straight over to Dilsberg without calling Eberlein first, parked my Opel in front of the old town gate, and found his house on the Untere Strasse. There was a note taped to the door. “I'm at the Café Schäne Aussicht. E.” I found him on the terrace of the café.
“You? The detective?”
“I realize you were expecting someone else—I figured the note wasn't meant for me. But do you mind if I sit down for a moment?”
“Please.” He made a hint of a bow, seated as he was. “Look at that!” He pointed to the south.
The Dilsberg Mountain blended into the gentle hills of the Kleiner Odenwald. It was a spectacular view. The restaurant on whose terrace we were sitting definitely merited its name: Schäne Aussicht—beautiful view.
“No,” he said, “look higher.”
“Are those the…?” I couldn't believe it.
“Yes, the Alps. Mänch, Eiger, Jungfrau, Mont Blanc. I don't know the names of the others. You can only see them a few days a year; one would have to ask a meteorologist why. But I've lived here for six years, and it's only the second time I've seen them.”
On the horizon the sky was a deep blue. Where it became lighter, a delicate white brush had painted the chain of peaks. To the right and left they faded into the mist. Above them arched the clear sky of early summer, a normal Rhine-Neckar sky that did not betray anything of the wonder that it showed on the southern slope of the Dilsberg.
“You and I might well be the only ones who are witnessing this,” I said. There was no one else on the terrace.
He laughed. “Does that make it twice as nice?”
In the magic of the moment I had forgotten that he was a psychiatrist. What would he have deduced from my remark? That I am incapable of sharing? That I was a single child? That I became a private investigator because I want the truth for myself instead of leaving it for others? That I'm infantiliz-ing, and I shit and don't get off the pot—
“Herr Self, I imagine you want to talk to me about Rolf Wendt. The police have told me that you are working for his father. How far have you got?” He looked at me attentively. Tanned, relaxed, his shirt unbuttoned, his sweater over his shoulders, the cane with the silver knob leaning against the railing as if he no longer needed it—there was no sign that the last few weeks might have shaken him, or at least I couldn't see any sign.
I told him that the bullet that k
illed Wendt had come from a gun belonging to Lemke, whom he knew as Lehmann, and that I didn't know if Lemke had killed Wendt, or why he might have wanted to. I also told Eberlein that all murders were committed by people who wanted to save their life's illusions, and that I would have to know the illusions of all the parties involved, but that I didn't know them.
“What was Wendt's illusion?” I asked. “What kind of man was he?”
“I know what you mean by life's illusions, but I don't believe that they exist in your sense. There are life issues, and Wendt's issue was doing it right.”
“It?”
“Everything. He was the only person I could really and truly rely on, whether it was attending patients and dealing with their families, collaborating on articles, or just administrative stuff. Rolf Wendt wouldn't rest until whatever he had undertaken to do was done as well as possible.”
“Hence that look of strain on his face?”
He nodded. “To shield himself from excessive strain, a perfectionist must limit himself, must ration and budget himself. He cannot live life to the fullest. He can set up his work environment that way, but in his personal life he often ends up being miserable. In his attempt to do the right thing by his friends, the perfectionist doesn't get to enjoy his friendships, and in his attempt to do the right thing by women, he doesn't get around to loving them. Wendt wasn't happy, either. But I must say that in his unhappiness he actually managed to develop an empathy for the unhappiness of others.”
“How does one become a perfectionist? How did Wendt—”
“What a question, Herr Self! We Swabians have perfectionism in our blood. Protestants become perfectionists so that they get to heaven, and children become perfectionists because their parents expect it of them. Does that answer your question? Wendt was a clever, sensitive, competent, and agreeable young man. There was no reason whatsoever to analyze his perfectionism. OK, he wasn't happy. But where does it say that we are here in order to be happy?” He picked up his cane and tapped the dot beneath the question mark.